


soft jazz in the next room

by uniformly (scramjets)



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28119090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scramjets/pseuds/uniformly
Summary: Snafu knew he should’ve walked away the moment Sledge got in contact with him. He also knew he couldn't.A spy AU.
Relationships: Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8
Collections: Heavy Artillery Holiday Exchange 2020





	soft jazz in the next room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youknowmyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youknowmyname/gifts).



> Written for the prompt: _An Sledgefu! Au where Sledge is a spy and Snafu is a spy from another organization. Chaos ensues._ Hope you enjoy, youknowmyname!

+

_I need your help_.

The message deleted itself a handful of seconds later, and was replaced by a place and time. 

Snafu shouldn’t have memorised it. He shouldn’t have even read it. But the thing was that by the time the second message disappeared from his phone, he already knew he was going.

+

Snafu eyed him. Sledge was good. There was very little of his uncertainty and apprehension Snafu could pick out. No hint of discomfort on his face, nothing to suggest they shouldn’t even know each other’s names, that they shouldn’t even be in the same room together. Glancing at him, anyone would have thought Sledge was relaxed. His shoulders were loose, and his hands rested in his lap.

Sledge took a visible breath. “You heard about Ack Ack?” he said.

“Sure,” Snafu told him. “It’s all over the place. They’re saying he’s dead.”

‘Dead’ made Sledge’s mouth tighten, and his face to go pale. If they weren’t working for opposing organisations, then maybe Snafu would’ve reached across the table dividing them to pat his hand or something. Or maybe instead he should be telling him that people were going to look if he planned on making some scene. But Sledge rallied himself without any comfort, wet his lips, cast a look around to the milling cafe crowd. Snafu followed where he looked, and found the cake arrangements behind the glass. Carrot cake with thick buttercream, chocolate cake with layers of ganache, citrus tarts with ribbons of white chocolate. 

“They’re saying it’s me,” Sledge said, when he turned back.

That, Snafu hadn’t heard. 

“What you want me to do about that, huh?” he said.

Sledge didn’t say anything, just let his head drop in his hands. Snafu glanced around the area. The cafe Sledge had picked to meet was a good one. Busy, with an open layout. They sat together deep inside, in full view of the exit. People came in and out, a few sat down at low tables and waited for their plate of cake or quiche. Conversation bloomed around them, washed out by the hiss and steam of the coffee machine. 

“I don’t know.” Sledge’s voice dragged Snafu’s focus back. 

He was still pale, and his eyes were a little pink as if he’d been crying or something before he’d arrived. Snafu shifted in his seat, propped his chin in his hand, and looked at him. He’d never really looked at Sledge before. Never got close enough to be able to.

“Your man is gone, boo. And they’re thinking it’s you, huh?” he said. “So you come to me for help. We don’t even work for the same man, so I gotta ask you: what’s in it for me?”

At the counter, someone dropped a mug, and it shattered on the floor. Snafu suppressed a reaction, gaze still fixed on Sledge, but his blunt nails had dug into his jaw anyway.

“Oh, my god,” a woman said. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.”

One of the baristas stepped from behind the counter, her footsteps loud and deliberate, and bent to pick up the ceramic shards. They scraped against the floor.

“Quid pro quo,” Sledge said. 

He still had his head in his hands, and so his words came out muffled, barely louder than the sounds around them. 

“I can work by myself fine,” Snafu told him. 

Snafu had said it automatically, but already he wanted to take it back. He studied Sledge sitting across from him, head still bowed in his hands. How many times had they crossed paths working the same lines? Sledge, always put together, his lean, handsome face grim and determined, too focused to ever look at him. It was nice to have Sledge work to appeal to him. Supplicate, his bend low towards him as he asked, Please help me.

Sledge lifted his head like he heard his thoughts, and met his gaze across the round table between them. Sitting on it were their drinks, the iced latte Snafu bought beading wet and leaving a ring on the tabletop. 

“The Signal case?” Sledge said it simply.

He was really making Snafu work in trying not to react. Sledge didn’t know him, but he’d recognise the tells either way. Snafu straightened, and shrugged.

Sledge’s shoulders slumped, and his head went back in his hands. This time Snafu couldn’t resist the urge, and leaned forward to pat him on the shoulder. Sledge was sturdier than he’d figured, and Snafu didn’t know why that was so surprising, why discovering that sturdiness was like a break on a case he’d been working on. He sat back and closed his hand like he could keep the heat of Sledge’s body tucked away in his fist.

“Why not disappear,” he said. “You’d know how to do that. Create a brand new identity, and start a new life. Stay away from law enforcement, do something small. Could live very well like that, Sledge. Nice little life. Go get married, have kids if you wanna.”

“No. No, I don’t want that.” The words were exhausted. “I just-- Ack Ack was good, you know? If not for me, I owe it to him to find out who did this. He taught me all this.”

Ack Ack. Andrew Haldane. So competent that he almost didn’t seem real, like one of those men in one of those movies. Always knowing the right moves, always coming to the right conclusions. 

Snafu thought back to when he’d heard those rumours of his murder, littered here and there on the dark web. His stomach had jumped, hadn’t it. Gone all tight. Where’d he been again? Everyone’s always somewhere when these big things happen. When life diveredges in an unexpected away, new and different to how it had been the day before, unaccounted for. He’d never even met Ack Ack, but he’d shaped his life, too, hadn’t he? Altered the path of it from afar, and by influence alone? Did that mean he owed it to him then, to find out what happened, and who did it?

The pull for a cigarette rose in him. Snafu took his ice coffee instead, sweet and rich on his tongue, cold enough to bring goosebumps up on his skin. He set it back down.

“Quid pro quo, huh,” he said. “I can call on it any time I want.”

That pulled Sledge’s face from his hands again. His expression was one of checked hope, his dark eyes earnest. 

“Any time you want,” he said.

+

It was a mistake to agree like it was a mistake to have read the message. The room Snafu had hired was compact and tidy. Not a place that put welcome mints on the pillow, but there were plain notepads and black, unmarked pens on the counter, and he had packed all those away first.

On the bed, his cell phone buzzed. It stirred Snafu awake, and he reached for it. Sledge again, texting him a location.

 _Everything is sorted_ , he wrote. _All you have to do is get here_.

The message was presumptuous. It implied the lack of a work load on Snafu’s end, even if he did agree. It had a weight of predetermination to it, too, as if Sledge knew all along he’d agree, and it made Snafu want to bail just to prove Sledge wrong.

The message deleted itself. Snafu tossed his phone aside, ran his hands down his face, and wondered what he’d do if he ever had to disappear. If a job went that bad, or when he had enough of it. Wife and kids. He’d said that to Sledge, hadn’t he? It was easy to frame Sledge in a nice house, picket fence and all, add in a couple of red head kids romping at his feet. But him? Maybe he’d go back home. Go home and find that crooked little house on the bayou he’d grown up in, everything about it run down and ruined. Snafu missed it so damn much everything hurt. 

He’d buy it back, and fix it up, and he’d be fine living there the rest of his life. Maybe he’d start going to church again. Or maybe not.

Snafu checked out shortly after, and the staff smiled at him as he handed back the key.

“Hope you had a good visit, Mr. Avey,” reception pronounced _a-vee_ instead of _ah-vay_. “We’re sorry you had to cancel your stay early, and we hope to see you again soon.”

“Sure,” Snafu said.

The place Sledge named was diagonally across the city, like he was trying hard to be contrary, and in a clutch of high rises. The hotel was sleek and shiny, full of executives, and influencers, rising movie stars, that sort of place. Stepping into the foyer was to step into a glass chandelier. Sound echoing around him, and everything had the smell of floral cleaning fluid to it, as if they sterilised between customers. 

Sledge was seated in the waiting lounge. He was put together now, with the buttons of his shirt done up to the collar, and a suit jacket on top. He stood when he saw him, extended his hand as if they really knew each other, that this was some run of the mill business meeting. He even gave him a smile, and that smile thumped through Snafu. 

“Well, I’m here, Sledge,” Snafu said, not taking the handshake. “At your beck and call.”

Sledge withdrew his hand.

“Wasn’t me who made you,” was the response. 

“No.” Snafu smiled. “But you did ask so nicely.”

There were mints on Sledge’s pillows from the last room clean. Little buttons dressed in silver foil. Snafu took them, pocketed one and ate the other. The rest of the room was just as shiny. It had the smell of new to it, freshly laundered sheets and newly installed carpet, and it felt spacious despite the small size. It had a bed, a wide screen tv, and the bathroom was black marble, with a clawfoot tub like out of some rich man’s mansion. Sledge had a suitcase open in the wardrobe, and from where Snafu now sat on the neatly made bed, he could see a set of folded shirts inside, all of them white. Habit and training, and plain old curiosity made him wander over and drag a finger across the twill cotton.

He turned to catch Sledge watching, and Snafu smiled.

“Afraid I’ll steal all your secrets?”

“You can look if you want,” Sledge said.

Snafu shrugged, curiosity extinguished, and moved away.

Sledge laid out what he knew. It was strange how easily he gave the information to him. No doubt every word he said would be classed as ‘need to know’ only, and that he broke instruction and protocol several times over in saying them: A bullet in the temple. Died instantly. Found hours later. We think that Ma did it. 

“That’s where we’re starting,” Sledge said. “Ma.”

Sledge hesitated. “I told you earlier, how they think it’s me. I’ve been immediately suspended. I’m supposed to be in transit to HQ right now. Soon they’ll figure out I’m not, and release a statement for my immediate arrest with the local authorities. We need to leave as soon as possible. I have someone who’s bought time for me, so it’s not only me on the line right now. I need to find who did this. I need--”

His voice had gone tight, like he was not far from crying or breaking down. He’d started off so composed, too, with his shoulders set and back straight. But now Sledge was leaning against the desk, barely holding himself up. There was defeat through every line of his body, a frown on his face. He pulled himself together, rubbed his hands over his face.

“So,” he said, voice steadier as he drew his hands away. “Singapore. That’s where Ack Ack was found, so that’s where we’re starting. Any questions?”

Snafu shrugged again. “None that I can see.”

He could ask about Ma, but that would be unprofessional. He knew just as well as Sledge did who Ma was, and what he did. Ma stood at the helm of an outfit of punks, more trash talk than action. Every so often they’d rumble on the dark web about staging a take over, but then they’d disappear again and that would be it for months. As far as his agency were concerned, they were only a minor threat, too disorganised to be of any substance. But they’d killed Ack Ack.

Snafu understood why Sledge wanted them. The fact they ever got close enough to Ack Ack in the first place was surprising, concerning, and on principle, Snafu wanted to know how they did it. Who told them where to find him. How did they ever get the muzzle of that gun to his head. The whole thing didn’t feel right. It shouldn’t have happened so easily. 

“The flights have been booked, visas sorted. Accommodation as well,” Sledge said. Then, “You’re using the Merle Avey cover, aren’t you?”

Hearing Sledge say the name prompted a split second sensation of being caught out. Protocol demanded he destroy the cover, strip himself of it and burn all the evidence. 

But instead Snafu forced another smile, and said, “I’m embarrassed that you have to ask.”

Sledge smiled in return, small at it was, probably borne from pride or smugness, or something like that. It was nice to know you were good at your job, putting a picture together where there shouldn’t be a picture at all, or knowing when the picture was fake. Snafu wanted to tell Sledge that was why he was there, too, because he liked prying things he shouldn’t know from people who didn’t know what he was doing. People were puzzles, and puzzles could always be solved.

Just like you, he could’ve told him. A harder puzzle to be sure, but right now he’d be easy to solve, all his focus set on Ack Ack. The pieces of Sledge were right on the surface now, and Snafu didn’t need to go through his luggage to find them.

Sledge ordered room service, a late lunch, and there were more mints on the tray, along with a vase with a single rose. Snafu took the mints, and said the rose was for Sledge. Sledge gave him a strange, little look. But then he took the rose, broke the long stem, and tucked the small inch left over into the pocket of his suit jacket. 

It was novel despite the circumstances which had brought them together. Snafu let himself relish in the niceness of it all. The warm meal, the way both of them shared it on the bed with Snafu lounging while Sledge sat up proper and looked between his cell phone and complementary newspaper. The eggs were sunny side up and flecked with black pepper, the tomatoes had been roasted, finished with an even char. 

“You always have breakfast for lunch,” Sledge asked.

Snafu buttered a triangle of toast, and allowed himself to think this entire meal was more comfortable and familiar than it was. A vacation of sorts. 

“Breakfast is good for anytime,” he said.

Soon Sledge set his plate and cutlery aside, and said, “Okay. Well, if you’re done, let’s go then. The flight’s later on tonight.”

Snafu brushed the crumbs off his fingers, and stood, gesturing to the door. Work had settled in again, and returned Sledge and this situation to the new and different thing it was. 

Together, they checked Sledge out, and caught a cab. Sitting back against the frayed and soft leather of the car seat, Snafu watched Sledge lean forward and inform the driver where they were going. 

Late afternoon light streamed in through the side window, and caught Sledge’s features. The sun shone against his neatly combed hair, and the sight prompted that indulgent, pleasant sensation in Snafu’s stomach again, something he couldn’t excuse this time as a late lunch. He could almost see Burgie’s expression, annoyed and concerned at once, the way he’d tell Snafu to focus. Don’t confuse work with games, Shelton, Snafu heard. And he heard his own voice, too, telling Burgie that he wasn’t confusing anything. He knew very well what was fantasy and not. It was just nice, that’s all, to fall for the cover a little. It made it feel a little more real, easy to believe.

Sledge settled back against the seat, and Snafu turned to look out his window, watching as the city slid past. People, office workers, men and women, some herding children and some not, streaming along the sidewalk and sometimes cutting across the street. The close of another Tuesday. 

The taxicab had the smell of stale cigarettes, and of the wooden beads of the driver’s seat cover, and radio had been tuned to golden classics that the driver sometimes hummed along to. The lingering scent of cigarettes had lit up the craving, and Snafu wished he had the sense to have smoked one before hailing a cab. 

“Where’re you headed off to?” he asked, when they pulled to another set of red lights.

Snafu stared at the pedestrians gathered at a stop signal, the bulk of them peering down at their phones. There were some couples though, and he watched a pair, the man in a suit, with his arm wrapped around his partner’s shoulders, the both of them smiling and laughing as they discussed something. Some strange and funny thing that had happened at work earlier, or a recount of a tv show they’d watched. It looked nice.

“A work conference,” he heard Sledge say.

The drive crawled on, the cityscape eventually fading away behind them, traded for the motorway. A vague sense of carsickness twisted in the pit of Snafu’s stomach, and turned from the window, and closed his eyes. He was aware of Sledge looking at him, and wondered what he was thinking. He could guess what it was if he looked at him, but Snafu didn’t bother, and soon Sledge’s attention fell away.

He was half dozing by the time they reached the airport, roused by not only the car pulling to a firm stop, but also Sledge’s movement, and thanks directed to the driver. Sledge touched his shoulder. 

“I need a smoke,” Snafu said, waking up, hand fumbling for the door handle.

“Okay,” Sledge said after a pause, as if checking in earlier, and getting through security earlier, would have them in the air any faster.

Snafu found a corner, and pulled out his crushed soft pack. The nicotine was a welcome rush, pleasant and familiar, waking him up a little more. Twilight had closed over this corner of the world, the sky overhead coloured blue and pink. The air was cool, hinting at the changing seasons. 

Smoking, Snafu watched the cars passing through the drop off zone as he wondered why Sledge hadn’t asked him yet. Why are you helping me? It was busy, and Sledge stood off to one side with both their bags, and was looking at his cell phone again, a small frown on his face. The question raised its head once more: Why are you helping me? Sure, he’d asked for it, offered a trade, but there was more than enough reason for Snafu to walk away.

He wondered what answer he’d give if Sledge had asked the question. The Signal case, maybe. A file that was less his job, and more like a spectre hanging over his agency. The offer would’ve given even Burgie a pause. He wondered if he’d tell him about Ack Ack.

Snafu finished off his cigarette, crushed the dying embers out, tossed it in the bin, and then moved to join Sledge. The rose was gone from his suit pocket, and Snafu pretended not to notice.

Together, they checked in, and went through security. It was busy, full of people. More suits, more children; the space filled to the high, open ceiling with talk, and laughter, and wailing kids. 

The seating lounge was almost full when they sat. Sledge leaned forward and set his forearms on his knees, and stared at the flow of foot traffic. 

“Thanks,” he said, finally. 

“Don’t worry about it.” Snafu leaned back against the hard plastic chair. “You owe me, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

Silence settled between them, and Snafu thought it felt comfortable, maybe, like the brand of silence that came with people knowing each other, people who were used to the feeling of silence between them.

Sledge bought a coffee at a cafe, and Snafu tried not to show anything on his face when he saw he’d returned with two steaming cups. Burgie was at the back of his mind again, a sour note.

The coffee was strong and bitter, and the first sip scalded Snafu’s tongue, making him swear. Sledge glanced at him, half amused, and half concerned. 

“Careful,” he said. “It’s hot.”

“Thanks, Sledge,” Snafu said. “Didn’t realise.”

Sledge wet his lips, leaned in close, and said, “Call me Eugene.”

“Thanks, Eugene,” Snafu corrected. Everything about him had clenched in the proximity, a certain expectation rising to the surface and making his mouth tingle, his heart stutter. He hoped it wasn’t obvious in his voice, figured it had to be at least a little for someone like Sledge. “Didn’t realise.”

Sledge smiled at him, and sat back again, and after a second, Snafu copied him. 

“Merriell.”

“Merriell,” Sledge repeated.

Snafu took another sip of his too-hot coffee, annoyed. 

Soon their flight opened, and they both tossed their empty cups, and moved to stand in line. The routine of boarding a plane was calming, even with the threat of motion sickness. Snafu had bought a couple packets of ginger and barley while waiting, and had shoved them in his trouser pockets while Sledge watched. 

Snafu took the aisle seat, tucked his luggage under the seat, and buckled up. Sledge, or whoever had organised the flights, had booked them into business. The seats were spacious, and the pillows were plush. 

Once he was settled, Snafu leaned to Sledge and said, “Let me see your ticket.”

Sledge passed it over. 

_Mr. Eugene Avey_ , the ticket read. He passed it back.

“You got a passport for that,” Snafu said. 

“You saw me check in.”

“Sounds like your contact planned it well enough.”

“You know how quick it is to organise a passport.”

Mr. Eugene Avey. Snafu wasn’t sure what he felt about that, but the feeling coiled in him either way. 

Snafu fed himself ginger and barley the second the plane lofted into the sky. It wasn’t as effective as phenergan, but he wanted to be present with Sledge beside him, just in case. 

As far as plane rides went, it was a smooth one. The flight snack, followed soon enough by the flight dinner, everything intercepted here and there with minor turbulence. Every so often Sledge would ask him something, or comment on something, or point out an observation. But they were only small things, nothing to do with the job, not with this many people around them. Snafu tilted his head towards Sledge each time, smiled here and there, and offered a counterpoint where he could, delighting when Sledge sat back, something of a smile at his lips.

The cabin lights dimmed. Snafu pulled out the flat pillow, and the thin blanket from the seat pocket, and ripped both from the cellophane. 

“Wake me up if you need me,” he told Eugene, and fell asleep without even bothering to let his seat lie back.

Snafu woke up a couple hours later with a full bladder, an ache in his neck, and with his head on Sledge’s shoulder. The pillow and blanket both sat on the floor. He quelled his self-directed annoyance, and fumbled with his seat belt, and stumbled off to the cramped toilet. It smelled like soap inside, and everything was unpleasantly damp and bright. 

After finishing his business, Snafu washed his face, and stared at his reflection in the small mirror. A ‘no-smoking’ sticker sat in the corner, reminding Snafu he’d have to buy a new lighter when they landed. His reflection looked tired and pale, the bags under his eyes were exaggerated in the white light. Drops of water clung to his chin. 

He wasn’t certain as to what he was looking for. All his features were the same. There were no new scars, or scratches, no bruises. He didn’t even need to shave yet, stubble only a suggestion, nothing more than a darkening over his cheeks and jaw. Snafu yanked a paper towel from the dispenser, dried his face, and left the cubicle with a clatter. Sledge roused a little when he returned to his seat, and glanced sleepily at him.

“You okay,” Sledge asked. 

“I think so,” Snafu said.

Sledge smiled, crooked as it was, still mostly asleep. “You think so?”

“Go to sleep.”

The words were fonder than he’d aimed for, and Sledge was still smiling. But he did what Snafu told him anyway, settling back and closing his eyes. Snafu watched him for a moment, then dug around to find the slim media station remote. Then he put on his seat headphones, and watched some trashy movie until he passed out.

When he woke, sunlight was starting to edge around the closed window. His legs were cramped, and his head was on Sledge’s shoulder again. The dislodged headphones were jammed at his neck, pressing uncomfortably against his skin. His mouth was tacky, and dry, and more than anything he wanted a coffee and a cigarette. 

You should quit, Burgie had told him more than once. It’s better for you, and plus, it pays not to be addicted to anything while working. It’s distracting. In the haze of sleep, Snafu wondered if he’d told Burgie, “You’re distracting,” in return. 

Breakfast arrived shortly after, and Snafu requested a second coffee alongside his first. 

Sledge ate his meal in silence, clearly tired, but somehow more put together. He opened the window shade, and the beam of dazzling sunlight that shot through almost blinded Snafu.

“Gene,” he said, holding up a hand to shield his eyes. “Close it. It’s too early.”

Sledge closed it, and then excused himself for the bathroom. Snafu watched him disappear into the cubicle. He wondered if Sledge was going to wash his face while there, and if he was going to look into that same small mirror. He wondered if Sledge found what he expected, and if he liked what he saw. If what he saw was exactly what he wanted, and where he thought he’d be. Snafu hoped he did, just as much as he hoped he didn’t, just to make things even.

Their breakfast trays were removed, and some time later the pilot announced their descent. Snafu liked this part the best, and not because it meant he could finally recover from the quesiness of travel, but because it reminded him of his first plane flight ever.

“The first time I went on a plane was when I first got the job,” he said to Sledge.

Sledge looked at him with confused surprise, but if it was because of the admission, or the fact that he was offering it, Snafu didn’t know. Snafu smiled at him either way.

“Spent the entire time spewing in those little bags.”

“Thank you for not spending the entire trip spewing, I guess,” Sledge said.

“You’re welcome, Eugene.”

Changi airport was a disorientating flux of space, sound, shops, corridors, glass walls, high structured ceilings, displays, and people. Snafu could never decide if he liked it, with the potential of getting turned around more than once, and ending up in a completely different wing to where he needed to be. Worse was when he was only there for a layover, due to the added complication of time. It always stressed Jay out when he missed flights.

But Sledge knew his way around well enough, slicing through the crowds with determination and a grimness that would’ve amused Snafu had he not known the motivation. And because he knew why, there was nothing more to do but to follow.

Together they went through immigration, and it wasn’t until they handed their passports to the attendant that Snafu remembered that Sledge’s passport carried the same name. Fake as it was, the thrill of it went through him. Snafu watched the woman’s face as she flipped open the cover, and took their landing slips, her expression unchanging as she stamped everything, and then handed it all back. Snafu’s disappointment was a curious twist. He’d wanted her to ask, he realised, or look at them. How long have you been married? Here for a holiday? Something like that. 

Leaning in, wholly aware of Sledge at his side, Snafu said to her, “We’re celebrating our third anniversary.”

“Oh,” she said. “Congratulations. Have a good trip.”

Satisfied, Snafu slid his passport back into his breast pocket. 

“What was that for,” Sledge asked him, sotto voce, as they left.

Snafu shrugged. “Figured it would help our cover.”

They were halfway towards the exit when Sledge stiffened. It was a barely perceptible thing. He didn’t stop, barely stumbled in his step, but Snafu knew the moment it happened. Then Sledge grabbed his forearm and maneuvered them through the crowd. 

“Who is it,” Snafu said. 

Sledge had his back against the wall, and he’d pulled Snafu in front of him. Snafu looked at his face as Sledge lifted his chin, looking over Snafu’s shoulder to the crowd behind them. 

“Who is it,” Snafu asked again.

“It’s--…”

Sledge’s brows drew together. He was nothing but control in this moment. Snafu could feel how Sledge wanted to surge forward, to react, grab whoever caught his attention, and he also felt the effort it took to stop himself. 

Snafu was aware of everything behind him, the people, the sounds. He didn’t like not being about to see, and how vulnerable it made him, and he tried to turn his head. But the grip on his arm tightened, and so he stopped and breathed, swaying forward in an effort to redirect the movement elsewhere. Sledge let him go. They were tucked together tightly, almost chest to chest. Snafu could feel Sledge breathe. He swallowed.

“You’re so uptight,” Jay told him once.

“Yeah?” Snafu had said. “What’re you going to do about it?”

What they had done about it was the most ill-advised hook up of the decade. It had taken days before Jay could look at him in the eye again without going red, and Snafu never worked out if he was smug or mortified in the reaction. Burgie had never outright given them the ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ line, but he never had to say it: the sentiment had been all over his face.

Snafu thought of what he’d say now, if Burgie saw him like this, the way he was crowding a rival operative up against a wall in the middle of a mission. It wouldn’t matter what Snafu said, that it was for cover, that the people they were after were in the fray behind him, that Sledge needed to see their faces. Burgie wouldn’t care. 

“You shouldn’t have been there in the first place, Shelton.”

It sounded about right, the words full of frustration and exasperation. 

What would he say then? “It was for Haldane.”

Sledge tucked his chin into the junction of Snafu’s neck and shoulder, and Snafu took a breath and closed his eyes. Sledge wore the stale smell of a transcontinental flight, but it appealed to Snafu anyway. He was also solid and warm, and he had his hands set carefully at Snafu’s waist. It was all Snafu could do not to react.

He’d say, “You idolise Ack Ack just as much as I do, Burgie, don’t tell me you wouldn’t do the same if you were in my position.”

What would Burgie do then? He’d set his jaw, and not say anything, because they both knew he was right. Ack Ack had paved their careers. They owed him that.

What felt like hours had only been a minute, if that, and Sledge pressed a hand flat against Snafu’s chest and urged him away. 

Snafu exhaled, and went. 

“Let’s go,” Sledge said, voice tight.

Snafu turned back into the crowd, studying the movement and faces of the people around them as they walked. He saw families, and couples, and countless others with their phones pressed to their ears, talking to their husbands, or wives, or children, or friends, telling them they’d landed, that they were okay, and they’d be home soon. He didn’t find whoever Sledge had seen.

Outside the morning was bright and busy. The heat was immediate, the humidity pressing down along with the sunlight. Snafu squinted at the line of taxicabs, a medley of primary colours, and the other cars waiting for passengers. It stank of exhaust, and the sound of idling vehicles and chirping cicadas thrummed through him. He needed a cigarette.

Sledge found them an empty taxi. Funny how taxis all over the world had the same general feel, as if they’d all agreed on having the same squishy seats, the same rack of beads, the same kind of music playing softly from the speakers. This one felt newer though, and smelled of crisp leather and citrus car freshener. Sledge greeted the driver in Mandarin, and told him their hotel address, then sat back, and buckled up. He was on his phone through the trip, reading this and that, frowning all the while. Snafu fixed his sight outside the window, and watched the clouds as they made their way through quiet morning traffic into the city. 

They checked into another sleek hotel. A double room, despite their shared name. 

“You have good taste, Eugene,” Snafu said, once the door was shut behind them.

There were more mints on pillows, small, thin rectangles instead of circles this time. Snafu took both sets, unwrapping one as he wandered over to the windows, and peered outside. 

“Oswalt,” Sledge said.

Snafu glanced over his shoulder.

Sledge had set his luggage on his bed, and had unzipped it, but he caught the look. “He’s the one who arranges all the details. The flights, accommodation, things like that.”

He’s the one covering for me, Snafu heard.

“That’s not too bad,” Snafu said. “And here’s Burgie expecting me to sort that out myself.”

It was mostly a lie. Jay did all that, and was prompt with it, too. But Snafu was going to have to tell him to find better hotels once he got back. 

Snafu took stock of the room, seeing past the polished lines and perfectly tucked in bed sheet corners. He looked in drawers, behind the desk, in the wardrobe. He went to his knees and checked under the bed, then pulled up the mattress to look there, too. The bathroom wasn’t marble here, and it didn’t have a bath. But it was still large enough to echo as Snafu looked in drawers and as he peeled the wrappers off the cakes of soap. He checked the bin, and slid his hands into the pockets of the plush bathrobes hung up on a hook behind the door.

“All clear,” he called out.

Sledge ran his own check regardless. 

“Who you see,” Snafu asked, once they’d settled, and once the silence of two people who barely knew each other fell between them.

“An operative from Ma,” Sledge said. “He’s on our watch list, but no one of any importance in the grand scheme of things.”

“So a henchman,” Snafu said.

Sledge winced. “Yes, like a henchman.”

“What?” Snafu smiled. “That too low-brow for you? Henchman?”

“We just use ‘operative’.” Sledge still looked serious when he spoke, but there was something of a smile on his face.

The rest of the day was spent mapping out their next move. Sledge told him everything he’d missed out the first time, back in Sledge’s last hotel. It alarmed Snafu with the ease of how he did it -- giving names, places, other information, their last sightings, last movements, weapons, and Snafu memorised it all, in case there was something in it that he could give to Burgie later even though Ma wasn’t wholly on their watch list. 

“That’s not what we’re doing right now,” Burgie would say.

“You never know.” And he would shrug. “These kinds of people are all connected anyway, you know that. Besides, they’ve been linked to the Signal job, haven’t they. Technically I’d be working that while doing all this. And just think, you wanted me to quit Sledge and head back.”

What could Burgie say to that anyway.

They left the room in the evening for a meal somewhere close by. Sledge had wanted to order room service, but the point of Singapore was to eat out, Snafu had said, and Sledge had eventually relented. 

The restaurant was small, more like a large dining room really, with as many plastic seats and tables they could manage packed in among the crowd. The walls were a dull shade of yellow, and everything was brightly lit. At the front by the registers, and behind a sheet of glass, was an array of food on display. Sticks of meat, spring rolls, curry puffs, racks of roasted duck braised in red sauce and charred. The smell of freshly cooked food filled the space, settling over the collected heat. Music pumped from overhead speakers, barely audible over the din of conversation, and every so often a knot of people would break into laughter.

Snafu ordered a wonton soup, and Sledge had a curry and roti, and pretended he didn’t notice when Snafu ripped off sections of his roti bread, and ate it. The beer was good, crisp and cold in the swelter. 

He bought a new lighter on the way back to their hotel, and was mindful not to smoke outside of the designated areas. They didn’t need the complications of a fine, and Snafu didn’t have the excess of cash to pay for one. Their step idled on the walk. It was pleasant, and again Snafu allowed himself to relax into the idea of them knowing each other, being comfortable with each other, to settle. He knew it was indulgent, and that it toed the line of unprofessionalism -- he didn’t know Sledge at all, not beyond what he could glean -- but he let the sensation fill up the space in him anyway.

“What got you into it,” Snafu asked. He gestured vaguely with the hand holding his cigarette. “This.”

Their hotel reared up in the middle distance, a tower that shone in the night, glittering with light. Snafu thought he could see their room, somewhere in the middle there, the window dark because he’d turned off all the lights before leaving. He eyed the dark windows, sensing that once they were there again, behind that closed door, this pleasantness would disappear.

He glanced sidelong to Sledge. The light shone on his face as he walked, the shadow of his features growing longer and longer as they fell out of the glow, before they moved beneath another lamp and the new light cast Sledge back into brightness. Something warm shot through Snafu, and he had to look away. He took a long draw from his cigarette. Exhaled.

“When I was six,” Sledge said, after long enough for Snafu to think the question had gone unanswered. “I watched a documentary of how espionage developed and advanced. That was it, really. What about you?”

“Movies,” Snafu said. “Bond.”

He smiled at Sledge when he looked at him. Sledge had to know it was only a half truth -- just like Snafu knew what Sledge had said was only a half truth, too -- but Sledge didn’t push, and simply gave him a smile, and left it at that.

Sledge showered and changed when they returned, donning a matched set of pajamas, and pulled out a book to climb into bed with. Silence settled in the room, unexpectedly serene, with the turn of pages being the only real sound. 

Snafu had worked with partners under a marriage cover before. He’d done it a few times, some assignments longer than others. It never did stop feeling strange to him, this particular void in his life suddenly filled in. It was easier when his cover was paired with a woman, usually Angela from the same branch, because they knew each other well enough to know it never would have worked. But more than that it was because his personal taste ran the other way. 

He’d never been put under a marriage scheme with a man before, and Snafu wasn’t sure if he liked it. Or rather, and if he was being honest with himself, it was more he liked it too much. It was too comfortable, too close to the truth, too close to what he wanted. He shouldn’t have let this happen. Should’ve protested the second he saw Eugene Avey, dug his heels in until Sledge changed it. He would’ve, too. 

The next time he looked over to Sledge, he was asleep. Snafu didn’t know why it was so surprising. A long day of travel, and he’d talked himself hoarse explaining everything he’d known, overriding all his training and the protocol drilled into his head regarding sensitive information. Regarding any information, really. Private, personal, work related, or not. Snafu couldn’t remember the last time he told anyone anything about himself. But more than the travel, and the talking was the grief Sledge nursed. It had to be difficult and draining.

Snafu could feel it, too, the way fatigue had pressed down on him, insistent, along with the weight of his own complicated feelings. His eyelids dragged, felt hot in his exhaustion. It would take nothing to climb into his bed proper, sink into the soft mattress, and follow Sledge into sleep. But Snafu had always been a little divorced from his own needs, and Sledge being asleep made it easier for him to grab his laptop, find a secure network, and start to work.

The dark web was ninety percent bullshit on a good day, and just because it was night time it didn’t mean it suddenly had anything to offer. Snafu picked out anything he could find on Haldane. There was an undercurrent of talk about his death, some gloating, some speculation. 

Ma’s men were taking credit for the job, and here and there was a scatter of pictures to confirm it. Uneasiness swelled in him as he studied the photos. He supposed he hadn’t put any stock in it, that someone like Ack Ack could be killed. Not so easily, not like this. Snafu flicked through the pictures, recognisable despite their blurriness. There was something about them, too, that didn’t sit quite right. 

But it was probably the fact the larger part of him still rejected it all. Seeing was believing, and all that, but what if you didn’t want to believe what you saw? Before Snafu could really sink further into the recesses of the dark web, his phone buzzing at his hip dragged his focus away.

“What are you doing.” Burgie’s voice was very even when Snafu answered, but he could sense the tight anger behind it. “Why are you in Singapore.” 

None of these were questions.

Snafu glanced over to Sledge, face turned towards him, his features softened by shadows and sleep. 

“Would you buy it if I told you I was taking a vacation,” he said. 

He didn’t have the luxury of being surprised that Burgie knew where he was. That was all Jay’s doing. Burgie probably had Jay on it the second he went radio silent.

“I need you to come back,” Burgie said. “Jay’s already got the flights sorted.”

His phone vibrated with an incoming email. The itinerary. 

“You’re going to have to cancel that,” Snafu said.

“I don’t think so.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“That’s nice,” Burgie said. “But I don’t, and that’s the problem.”

Silence held. Snafu could hear Sledge breathe from across the room, quieter than Burgie’s breathing down the line. It was very possible that he wasn’t asleep at all, that he was listening in, and taking in the information the same way Snafu would have had it been Sledge on this call. 

“Gotta go, Burgie,” Snafu said. “Had a long trip today. You know how I get on plane rides. Spend most of it feeling like sh--”

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation--”

“Ack Ack’s dead,” Snafu said. “And I wanna know why.”

Silence. 

“That’s not our jurisdiction,” was the eventual response.

“You idolised him, too, didn’t you. I think we all did. One of those guys, you know,” Snafu said. “Can’t help but watch their every move, and hope that one day you’ll be half as good as them. Hey, remember that trafficking ring he blew open? Shit, that was four years ago now. It was all over the news. Not him though. But what he did.”

“Merriell--”

“I’m going to sleep,” Snafu said. “I’ll keep you updated.”

He cut the call and dropped his cell on the mattress. Burgie would be pissed, and it was likely he’d be benched after this, and dragged through discipline and retraining. He’d probably be tasked with desk work for a while, arranging flights for other operatives alongside Jay. 

Snafu glanced across the space between the beds to Sledge, who’d turned on his side now, back presented to him. His hair shone dully in the lamp light. Shifting, Snafu rested his head on the pillow. The angle changed the colour of Eugene’s hair from auburn, an almost black, to a burnished gold. Snafu liked that. He’d always liked shining things.

+

He jerked awake to a frantic banging at the door. Snafu scrambled seated upright, confused and disorientated, heart racing in his chest. The banging didn’t stop, and Snafu wet his lips, breathed in, out, and glanced across to Sledge. Sledge was sitting up, staring at the door. His hands were bunched in the sheets, and even in the semi-dark, Snafu saw the white blush of his knuckles.

Sledge’s gaze dropped from the door to meet his just as the banging stopped abruptly. Silence rang out. Snafu slid out of bed. The carpet was cool underfoot. Thick. Plush. Slowly, he grabbed what he could and shoved them into his bag, and after a second, Sledge moved to do the same thing, hand closing over his cell on his side table. 

You don’t think that’s room service, Snafu wanted to say, coming in with another cake.

The door handle rattled. A quick and frantic sound. Snafu swore under his breath. It was only time until whoever stood on the other side overrode the security, and then what? There hadn’t been a chance yet to source a gun, and he didn’t have any contacts in Singapore to arrange anything. Snafu didn’t allow himself to panic. There wasn’t the luxury of that in this business. Panic meant mistakes, mistakes meant he’d become compromised, and being compromised meant death. 

At the door, the locking mechanism clicked as the security was overridden, and there was a muted whirr. Snafu ignored the way his blood went cold, and how everything went numb. It was a sort of whole body awareness despite the vague not-quite-there feeling of his limbs; arms and legs heavy and slow to respond to the haziness of his thoughts. 

The door clicked one final time. Time held. One long, tremulous moment passed before the door was kicked open.

Operatives poured into the room, too fast to count. Two, three, four. Tall, heavy, dressed in dark colours. Snafu stumbled back to put space between them. One of them took a swipe at him. A knife blade glinted. Snafu scrambled over the bed, rolled to his back. He kicked one operative solid in the chest. The force of it shot up Snafu’s leg, and the man stumbled back. 

It was a strange, semi-silent fight. The kind that didn’t want to draw attention to itself, almost dreamline in the blue-black lighting of the room. The thuds were muted, any yells or grunts held behind clenched teeth. 

Sweat made Snafu’s clothes stick to his skin. It damped his hair, turning chill from the air conditioner blasting overhead. Snafu rolled off the bed, and snatched his bag in the same instance an operative grabbed him, hand tight around his upper arm. Snafu swung his free hand up and jammed his fingers into the operative’s eyes. The operative grunted, and jerked his head away. Snafu shoved forward, slamming them into a wall, and curled his fingers into his eyes. The operative’s grip refused to relent. Snafu snarled, pushing against the resistance, pushing against the grip the operative had around his arm, so tight it made everything throb. 

Abruptly the hold was released, and Snafu jerked away as the operative slid down the wall, clutching his face. 

“Take what you can,” Snafu said.

There was no point in saying it, but Sledge nodded anyway. Snafu scrambled over the operative on the floor, and bolted, nearly tripping, out the door. He waited as long as it took for Sledge to join him, and together they strode down the hall to the elevators. Sledge pressed the button and waited, the both of them breathing hard. Snafu eyed the fire escape, already calculating how many floors they could’ve descended if they took it. But it was always a risk, there could be more of them lying in wait, and stairs were never a good place to stage a fight in. He’d learnt that early on, and had the x-rays to prove it.

The lift was empty when it opened, strangely opulent in contrast to the scene they just left. They both stepped in, and Sledge hit the ground button. Snafu stared at the brightly lit hallway as the doors slid shut, and then it was nothing but the sound of their breathing, just slightly out of sync with each other.

“You okay,” Sledge said, finally.

“Uh huh.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Snafu looked at him.

“You’re bleeding,” Sledge said again.

Sledge’s hair was ruffled, and there was a long scratch down his cheek, coupled with the start of a bruise.

Snafu stared for a second longer, and then looked down at himself, searching for the source of the bleeding before the agony of it hit him. It never did. He was still in his slacks and button-up, both crinkled from sleep. Nothing was wet with blood. Confusion bloomed, lined by annoyance, lined by fatigue, lined by that panic he’d put on the backburner. His hands. Not the one clutching his bag, but the one he’d shoved into the operative’s face. The smell of blood hit him then. Snafu swore, and rubbed his hand on his trousers. 

“Here,” Sledge said, and Snafu was about to ask him, “Here what,” when Sledge moved and took his bag.

Snafu hadn’t realised the grip he had on it until he relaxed enough to let go. His hand was stiff, aching, and it hurt when he spread his fingers and then closed them into a tight fist. Sledge shouldered the bag, seemingly oblivious to the breach of operations, the scope of it. That he’d relieved Snafu of his gear, and that Snafu had let him.

The elevator stopped in that moment, and the doors slid open to reception. A wave of adrenaline went through him. Snafu’s muscles went tight, brought to the precipice of reacting.

A place like this was never empty or still, not completely. The lights shone down against the clean and bright walls, reflecting off every shining surface. It hurt to look at all at once. The man at reception smiled at the couple he was helping, registering the details of their stay, their collective concerns centred around the price, and the length of their holiday, of needing sleep after a long day of travel, after a long shift at work. 

“C’mon.” Sledge spoke in an undertone.

His hand closed around Snafu’s wrist as he said it, the hold gentle but still there, urging as Sledge led them to the doors that opened into a dark and humid night. Snafu drew in a deep breath, taking in the various scents. The damp, rich smell of soil from the hotel gardens that fringed the drive, and the lingering, heavier scent of tarmac, giving up its collected heat overnight. 

Sledge released his grip. “Let’s keep moving.”

Together they turned into the closest alley. Tight, dark, and unpleasant. They were both barefoot, and Snafu made a face at the warm puddles they tracked through. He wondered what Sledge thought of it, or how he looked, if his expression was even and dignified despite wandering through the murky puddles of Singapore’s backstreets, or if he wore his disgust freely. Snafu could only see the back of his head, his shoulders, but he wondered. 

They came out onto one of the busier streets, the lights bright despite the hour, the conversation loud, filled with tourists speaking various languages, filled with businessmen, and school students finally on their way home, and parents pushing prams, holding on to children’s hands. Someone laughed, loud over the general din, before the sound was quickly smothered, overwhelmed by everything else. 

“C’mon,” Sledge said again.

This time his hand didn’t close over Snafu’s wrist. Snafu set his shoulders, and refused to feel anything about it, settling to fall into step with Sledge as they moved through the busy sidewalk. 

They found a hostel, the front busy with people from everywhere, talking in what sounded like Spanish, maybe Portugese. All young kids, bright with possibilities. They clung to one another, hands clasped together, arms slung around shoulders, slung around waists. There was a fug of stale body odour that spoke of a long day doing various activities in the humidity, overlaid by a myriad of perfumes and sprays, and the resulting total scent was strong and vaguely unpleasant as they pushed past. It was soon traded for the crisp smell of cleaning products and incense in the cramped reception area.

The woman who welcomed them was older, and wore jeans and an oversized tee with the hostel logo stamped on the front. There was only one room, she said, but it was double. Sledge was already nodding. 

The room was no less cramped than the reception. It was pleasant in spite of the small space, comfortable. The two beds were almost pressed together, and they were both dressed in brightly patterned covers. There were no mints. Snafu moved to sit on one bed. He sat there a long moment just staring at the opposite wall, until everything gave, and he leaned forward and let his face fall into his hands. His hands smelled like metal and blood, and he wanted to find the communal bathroom and wash it all off, but he couldn’t move. Not just yet.

“They must have seen me at the airport.”

Snafu lifted his head.

Sledge was frowning hard. He looked like he wanted to pace, burn off the lingering traces of panic and adrenaline, but there wasn’t any space. Snafu didn’t doubt his assessment, because it was the only thing that made sense. 

“It’s fine, Eugene,” he heard himself say. 

It wasn’t fine. It was so far from fine that they should have been calling in for an extraction. They were compromised. 

Sledge did a small circuit. He sat down on the other bed, and stood up again. His expression was tight and drawn. 

“They must have seen me at the airport,” he said again. “When I--”

When he had Snafu pulled in front of him, when he had his chin tucked at Snafu’s neck. 

Sledge didn’t swear. He just exhaled and ran his hands down his face. 

“It’s fine,” Snafu said. “It’s fine, we’ll sort it out. We lost them anyway, so what does it matter. We’re still ahead.”

There was silence. Snafu watched him through it, taking in the set of Sledge’s shoulders and the miserable press of his mouth. He looked tired, and worn, and young. 

Snafu stood. “I’m having a shower.”

The communal bathrooms were warm and steamy, recently used despite being empty, and everything was wet. Snafu was forcefully reminded of high school, having to clean and dress after phys ed, and even now disgust and reluctance curdled in him. Someone had left a travel sized shampoo behind, and Snafu used the last of it to soap himself down. There were no towels, so he swiped water off the best he could, and then climbed back into his clothes. Everything stuck to him. He had to fight to get back into his shirt.

Sledge was still standing in the middle of the room when he returned. Some mean part of Snafu thought that he mustn’t have ever had a job turn sideways on him, had his cover blown, or a lead fall short. But then the thought faded away, and was replaced by something kinder.

“Go have a shower,” Snafu said. “It’ll be better once you have a shower. We’ll talk.”

The words must have reached him, because Sledge stirred a little, wet his lips, and after a pause, he said, “Okay.”

He said it again a moment later, looking at him, before heading out. Sledge closed the door carefully after him, and then it was only Snafu in the room. 

Snafu swore. He shoved his hands through his still wet hair. Swore again. He was compromised. Burgie was going to kill him. He was compromised. Sledge was compromised. Whatever gain they had on Ma was gone. They knew he and Sledge were looking, and so right now they would be in damage control. What should they do? Snafu’s mind scrambled through the options, and again and again he landed on the same one.

Sledge was calmer when he returned. It was like they’d swapped, his previous anxiety now threaded through Snafu. There was still water beaded on Sledge’s face, and his hair was dark and dripping onto his shirt. It turned the material semi-transparent, and Snafu felt something desperate and lonely rise up in him in spite of everything else. He closed his hands into fists. 

“It’ll be fine,” he heard himself say. 

To his own ears, the words sounded a little choked. But Sledge didn’t seem to hear it, or if he did, he chose not to react.

“Yeah,” Sledge said, “yeah, I know. It’s not the first time this has happened.”

“Not the first time?”

Sledge gave him a shy, small smile, and shrugged his shoulders. “One of my first jobs. It was with Haldane, and we had to be extracted. I thought that was it for me. That I’d be asked to step down. A dishonourable discharge. But Haldane told me that sometimes it happens. There’s only so much we can plan for, and in those plans, getting extracted is built into it. Not ideal, because it sets things back, and makes the target aware. But there are always other ways, other means. We obtained the information we needed to make an arrest in the end. But I hate it, having to use plan B.”

Snafu looked at him. The minutes ticked over, and soon Snafu looked away, gaze finding the dark corner of the room. There the wallpaper had peeled a little, showing a section of the white wall behind it. It felt he’d meant to say something, or come to some conclusion, but whatever it was had left him. 

Still looking away, Snafu asked, “Did you manage to take anything with you.” 

He asked it even though he already knew the answer. There was silence, but even without looking Snafu was aware of Sledge shaking his head. He didn’t offer anything. Not, ‘There was no time’, or, ‘I didn’t have a chance’, which possibly was the only thing reining in any reaction. 

He should’ve been breaking down the reality of their situation, the fact that documents as important as their passports, ticket information, and whatever else Sledge had were now in their hands. They could have done this if the documents weren’t all left behind. Snafu should’ve been terrified. He should’ve been angry. He should’ve been bailing right now, because the mission was shot to shit, and beyond salvaging. Did you have a plan B, Sledge? And the thing was Snafu felt the roil of frustration and anger and fear beneath the surface of his calm. It was _there_.

“Shit,” was all he said. “Fuck.”

The light in the ceiling buzzed, and through the walls came the faint sounds of talk and laughter. 

“I have my burner,” Sledge said then. “That’s it. That’s all we need. We can keep going.”

“Keep going where,” Snafu said, finally looking at him. “They know we’re here, they know we’re looking, they know our cover, our next move. Hell, Sledge, there’s probably a price on our heads right now, and now every one of their people along with any bounty hunters are looking for us. Maybe we could’ve done this if we had those documents, and maybe could’ve done it if we had a team in the background--”

“I still have my contact,” Sledge said. “He’ll cover us.”

Some of the anger finally breached the surface. 

“There’s no point. Not like this. We’re too--...” Snafu gestured to the room around them, letting it finish the statement for him. “They know we’re here, they know we’re looking. It ain’t going to get any better than this, and it’ll only be a matter of time until your people realise the shit you’re trying to pull under their noses.”

“Go then,” Sledge said. His skin had flushed red, but his eyes were hard. “If you think this is a bust. I’ve got no problem finishing this on my own.”

The out was tempting. Snafu could see him do it, taking his bag from where Sledge had set it on the floor, and then walking out the door. He’d call Burgie, ask him to get him the next flight out, and then that’d be it. Sledge could do whatever he wanted to do. He could get himself killed for all he cared.

The moment drew long.

“Fuck,” Snafu said, finally. His voice was hoarse. “Jesus fucking Christ. When they corner us, you bet I’ll shoot you first.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Frustrated and angry, Snafu turned and dumped himself on one of the beds. Something immediately cracked underneath him, and he froze, throwing a panicked look over to Sledge who stared back, wide-eyed. Everything in the room seemed to tremble, the traces of their argument and all the emotions suddenly absent, leaving behind a thin, waiting silence.

“You broke the bed,” Sledge said.

Snafu scrambled off it. 

“You broke the bed,” Sledge said again.

“Boy, if it broke that easy then it was already broken.”

But Sledge was already laughing. It was the type of laughter that was more acute relief than anything else. Pent up emotion released in a way that wasn’t anger, but that was just as expansive, just as violent, in the way it made Sledge flush red and tear up. Bit by bit, Snafu’s muscles unlocked, and he released a juddering breath. He wasn’t at the same point as Sledge, couldn’t even dredge up a smile. But the hard, unpleasant knot in him had eased somewhat, undone by shock in that sharp crack of breaking wood.

“Here,” Sledge said, breathless. “Sleep this one.”

“It’s fine. The sheets still work,” Snafu said. “I’m no flower.”

“Okay.”

Sledge moved to sit perched on the functioning bed. His laughter had died away, but there was a smile on his face. Something bright and open despite the dark smudges under his eyes, and wan flush of his skin visible beneath the pink flush. Barefoot, disheveled, he was more than a little handsome. The smile faded away, but Sledge’s gaze refused to drop away from him. Snafu swallowed, knowing he should do something. Anything. Reiterate the point, or say they had better start planning. 

But instead he moved to stand before Sledge, watching as his head tipped back so as to hold his gaze. His Adam’s apple jumped. Snafu’s heart was racing in his chest again, in that same fast way it had when their hotel room had been broken into. Funny how both separate, wildly diverging events elicited the same physical sensations. His thumping heart, heavy limbs, sweat-damp hands. Everything around him moving slow and sluggish, almost like a dream.

Snafu bent then, leaning down to press his lips to Sledge’s. One kiss, then another. Testing. Careful. Sledge moved a hand to Snafu’s shoulder to urge him down more. He broke away, and pushed Sledge back onto the bed, then climbed over him, knees set either side of his waist. Sledge made a noise at the back of his throat, and reached for him. He set his hands to Snafu’s stomach first, making his body clench, before he swept both hands up to Snafu’s shoulders to pull him back down. Snafu liked the way Sledge did that, and went easily. 

Quid pro quo. The phrase floated to the surface of Snafu’s mind. His loneliness against Sledge’s despair; fear traded for something more quiet; at least this would distract them from it all. 

Snafu leaned down to find Sledge’s mouth again, something going tender in him when Sledge rose to meet him.

+

Snafu woke with his face tucked against Sledge’s neck. It was nice there. Soft. Warm. And he smelled pleasant, like clean skin, clean sweat, and sleep. Snafu didn’t want to move, not wanting to disturb him, wanting to have this moment to himself a little longer. He pressed his eyes shut, forced his body to go loose as he brought every aspect of this into his memory. The even in-and-out of Sledge’s breathing, the heat of his skin, the way his arm was curled around him, hand slack, fingertips brushing against Snafu’s bare skin. Snafu took each sensation, and tucked it away, before he finally moved, breaking out of the hold. Sledge stirred, but fell back to sleep easily.

The room was dark, though the curtains were limned by the morning light behind it. Snafu took stock of it all, where they were, and what they were facing. He looked again to Sledge, content and untroubled in sleep. The smart thing to do would be to wake him up, and then figure out where they were going to go. But Snafu couldn’t bring himself to do it, not so ready to meet Sledge again so soon. He needed to collect himself first. 

Sledge woke not long later. His waking was a sudden thing, pushing up on his arms. It made Snafu freeze, too, and the both of them stared at each other. Sledge, still on the bed, and Snafu on the other one, perched carefully on the edge of it in case anything broke further. 

“Morning,” Snafu said. “You had a sleep in. It’s late.”

It was barely seven. But he had needed to be the one who spoke first. 

Sledge stared at him with something like surprise on his face. It wasn’t really surprise though, it was something more and something less than that. A kind of indecision, the adjustment of some previous understanding. But then, it was possibly nothing more than internal chastisement, or embarrassment. Snafu didn’t know, and as the seconds passed, felt the almost desperate need for Sledge to do something.

“Yeah,” Sledge said, finally.

Snafu looked back down to his laptop, the fan warm against his legs. The back of his neck prickled in heat. He was aware of Sledge moving, climbing out of bed, and finding his clothes on the floor. Snafu saw the bend and stretch of him in his peripheral vision, smooth skin over solid muscle. Long legs, long arms. He still felt Sledge’s fingers brushing his skin. He’d meant to keep the sensation squared away until he was far from this, but there it was.

“We need clothes,” Sledge said.

Snafu glanced up, confused.

“And I’d like shoes,” Sledge said. “And not to be in my pjs.”

The pajamas were a blue checkerboard, worn at the hems as if Sledge took them on every mission like some kind of token.

Snafu studied them for a second, there in his hands. “You look fine to me, Sledge.”

“It’s a little noticeable, Merriell,” Sledge said, pointedly.

Snafu shrugged his shoulders at him, if only to cover up the thrill at hearing his name spoken that way, familiar and knowing. He wasn’t all that sure if the gesture worked though, with Sledge’s smile.

“Those guys we saw,” Snafu said. “They’d be about the right fit.”

The smile disappeared, and Sledge frowned at him. “What do you mean? We ask to borrow something?”

“Why ask anything? They ain’t gonna be in their rooms right now.”

A pause, then, “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking to you?” Snafu said. “You want clothes or what?”

Sledge didn’t answer. Snafu broke into the room next door either way, and hauled out the closest zipped up bag. 

“There,” he said, dumping it on the one good bed. 

He unzipped it, and pushed through the messy contents before he stopped.

“What is it,” Sledge asked behind him.

“Gaienne,” Snafu hissed. “I got the girlfriend’s bag.”

“And suddenly that’s not good enough?”

Snafu turned on his heel, and jammed a finger into Sledge’s chest, but the look on his face immediately deflated the bulk of Snafu’s annoyance. 

He said, “You’re a pain in my ass.”

“I was, wasn’t I,” Sledge said.

Snafu returned the bag, and returned to their room with the other one. The clothes inside were terrible, mostly tight cut-offs in bright colours, a couple pairs of black skinny jeans, and obnoxious printed tees. But they were roughly the right size, and, if anything, made them almost unrecognisable compared to their previous selves. 

He made a face at himself in the narrow room mirror, dressed in jeans and a neon shirt, and ran his hands through his cropped curls as if it would change anything.

“I don’t think this man wants kids, Gene,” he said.

Sledge’s laughter was unexpected, and Snafu shot a smile at him, quietly delighted.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Wait one minute,” Snafu said.

He sat back down on the bed, dragged his laptop back onto his lap, and accessed tor, scouring his usual dark web haunts, sifting through the junk to find anything useful. He must have made some face, because Sledge said something.

“Huh?”

“I was asking you what’s wrong.”

But Snafu had already stopped listening. The tide of the rumours regarding Ack Ack had turned slightly, with talk bubbling around the edges of his death being about how he wasn’t dead at all. 

Beside him, the bed dipped, and Snafu flinched before realising it was Sledge. Any previous softness or amusement had left his face, his expression grim as he stared at the screen. The dull light shone against his skin, giving it a pallid, almost sickly flush. This close and Snafu could see the prickle of Sledge’s stubble, red, like his hair, and the chips of green in his dark eyes. 

“I can’t read it,” Snafu heard himself say.

Sledge glanced at him. 

“The Chinese,” Snafu said. “I can’t read it.”

“It says…” Sledge returned to the screen. “It’s talking about Ack Ack’s body.”

“What about it.”

The hesitation was barely perceptible. It was only because all of Snafu’s senses were honed to these subtle shifts he noticed it at all. 

“Why do they think it’s you,” he asked.

Sledge didn’t respond, and Snafu stared at his profile while he waited, fine to wait this one out though impatience stirred up in him. 

“I was working with him,” Sledge said, finally. He paused to wet his lips, and Snafu followed the action with his eyes before dragging them back up. “I was working with him, and I had left to meet a contact.”

His brow was furrowed when he spoke, and his voice was very even. Snafu didn’t trust it at all.

“He was dead when I got back. I left. I didn’t know what to do, so I left. I left, and I contacted you.”

“Why me.”

There was no point in saying they didn’t know each other. There was no point raising Sledge ever noticed him at all, not in the way Snafu did. 

Sledge looked at him as if he was surprised. “I told you: I trust you.”

“Did you tell me that?” Snafu said. “Because I don’t remember, Sledge. Now what the fuck is going on.”

“What’s going on is that I’m trying to find out what happened with Ack Ack,” Sledge said. His voice had climbed as he had spoken, but he caught himself, forced himself calm, and said, “And I contacted you because I thought you could help me. That’s all.”

That wasn’t all. Snafu could feel more of the story pressed up against the back of Sledge’s words, it was there even if the expression on his face gave no hint to it. He’d already lost count as to the number of times he’d tried to make himself get up and leave. He was still here and so, Snafu supposed, what made him think that this time would be any different? Thinking he should leave when he was more curious than ever, and not just about Haldane, but about Sledge, too. 

Burgie’s voice was a continuous, exasperated reel in his mind, telling him over and over again to bail. More than Burgie’s voice in his head was the continuous calls and emails from him. One or two had come from Jay, too, and those were more pleading than Burgie’s. Nicer. Snafu had read them, wondering how someone like Jay ended up working with someone like him. But it was easy to underestimate Jay like that. He was as dangerous as Snafu was, he just looked as innocent as anything while doing it.

“Okay,” Snafu said. “Fine. You trust me. That means I have to be able to trust you, too, Eugene.”

“Do you?”

“Not even close.”

The smile confused him, there on Sledge’s face, looking almost like relief. 

“Okay,” Sledge said. “Good. Let’s go then.”

Snafu looked at the screen again, the words and Chinese characters blurring out before they snapped back into sharp focus. Then he closed the lid. They packed up the little amount of the things they had, and Snafu dropped the bag off to the couple’s room. He wasn’t so careful in putting it in the exact place, knowing they would likely be walking around, spending all day in Singapore’s humidity, possibly taking a day tour, and they’d return to their room spent and exhausted, and collapse into bed before ever thinking to look at their bag and wonder why it’d moved from one point to another. And even if they did notice, they’d shrug their shoulders. It would be no different with the missing clothes, too.

“Hey, babe, didn’t I pack that shirt?”

“What shirt?”

“That band one. Neon, remember? You said it was ugly.”

“No, I didn’t. I thought you packed it.”

“I dunno, that’s why I’m asking.”

Snafu wondered what it was like having that sort of conversation. He couldn’t imagine himself being frustrated over the loss of a shirt, but he liked the sound of it either way. It sounded easy. 

He found Sledge waiting for him at the door of their room, something anxious on his face, hand clasped tight around his burner.

“All good?” Sledge asked.

“What,” Snafu said. “You doubting my abilities?”

The woman who checked them out was the same woman who checked them in yesterday. Bright and cheerful, she took the keys from them, and bade them goodbye, and said to have a nice trip. She wasn’t anything like the immigration officer who’d stamped their passports, but Snafu wanted to lean in and likewise tell this woman that he and Sledge were on holiday for their anniversary, except there was no reason to, here. So he didn’t bother.

Outside the morning was already in full swing. The sidewalk bustled with people, and the streets were a gridlock. It was clouder that day, but even without the sun, the heat and humidity was unrelenting. Snafu had already started to sweat, prickling across the small of his back and at his hairline. He felt suctioned into the jeans, so tight that the material almost didn’t want to bend at the knee.

“Where to, Sledge,” he said.

Sledge was looking at the crowd, frowning. The seriousness of his expression looked out of place against the bright colour of his shirt, and the sneakers he wore. 

“This way,” he said.

They cut across the street, and lost themselves through the crowd. Conversation bloomed around them in various languages. It was easy to forget the position they were in, here among this, and Snafu found his concerns receding, and his questions put on hold as the morning wore on. 

Sledge led them through the main city streets like he was zeroed in on something. He paid no attention to anything around him. Sweat beaded on his skin, and at the next stoplight, Snafu reached up and brushed away a drop that slid down Sledge’s jaw. Sledge tensed, and looked at him in open surprise. It was there for only a second, barely enough for Snafu to savour the look on his face. 

“We’re being followed,” Sledge said.

Snafu was too well trained to stiffen or look behind him, but even despite the training the urge was there. He bit the inside of his cheek. Swallowed. Annoyance swelled in him for not noticing, his frustration self-directed for allowing himself to relax enough to slide into self-indulgence. He swiped his fingers he’d touched Sledge with on his jeans.

“What do you mean,” he said.

“I mean,” Sledge said. “We’re being followed.”

Something sharp and unpleasant coiled in Snafu. 

“We need a gun,” he said.

Sledge didn’t respond, and for a second Snafu thought, hoped, wished, he’d misheard the entire thing, that Sledge had pointed out something inane and innocuous. Something at a shop window, an amusing sign, something like that, and not, We’re being followed. 

“We need a gun.”

“We’ll get one,” Sledge said. “Once we’ve lost them. We’ll get one. Keep walking.”

“Who are your contacts here,” Snafu said. “Where’s your safehouse.”

“Keep walking.”

Snafu drew in a breath in a scramble to temper his rising anger. If this was him, he wanted to say, he would’ve given them the slip already and gone straight to a safehouse. Recoup. If this was his job, he wanted to say, no one would be following them. It would’ve been the other way around. Weren’t you better than this? He wanted to say. I know how you work, Sledge, I’ve seen your reports. 

“Where are we leading them,” Snafu said. 

They stopped at another red signal, and people swelled around them. On the street someone honked a car sitting at the green light. Sweat ran down Snafu’s back. The heat was pressing. Overhead the sun broke through the crowd and bore down. Snafu wet his lips, exhaled hard, set his jaw. He cut another glance to Sledge, and found him impassive, his face set in concentration. Sweat still beaded at his brow, and his skin was turning pink. A fickle sense of smugness grew in Snafu, pleased at the discomfort, as if it evened out the situation they were in.

The pedestrian light turned green, and as one great mass, the crowd crossed the street. Sledge found his hand then. Snafu almost recoiled at the unexpected touch, and shuddered out a breath when he recognised it. Sledge tugged them through the ambling pedestrians, grip tight and sweaty as they made it to the other side of the street, and his pace didn’t slow even then.

The shops weren’t open yet, their fronts locked and shadowed so that their reflections were bright and sharp as they passed across each one. Snafu caught snippets of the picture they made, with Sledge half a step ahead. He couldn’t see their joined hands, and so, without thinking, he tightened his hold. 

Sledge led them around corners, and down dark alleys. He pulled them to the very fringes of the city, and then doubled back, threading them through the streets. He crossed roads, pulled them down tunnels, and over high pedestrian bridges. He shoved them into a cab in one instance, and took them to the other side of the city, closer to the water, steel coloured under the bright sun. Then he pulled them into a cafe, one of those catered to westerners, with an array of bitter, milky coffees, and breads, and meals of bacon and fried eggs on offer. 

Together they slid into a booth, Sledge positioning himself with the visual of the restaurant while Snafu had his back to it. Again annoyance swelled in him, skin prickling at the uncomfortable lack of sight, but the discomfort in him relaxed somewhat in the expression on Sledge’s face, and the way his focus was fixed to the street outside.

The comfortable, familiar smell of breakfast was a strange counterpoint to the roil of uncertain not-quite-panic. Snafu wiped his hands on his jeans, and immediately started to play with the cup full of sugar sachets. 

“You see anything?”

“No,” Sledge said.

“You think we lost them.”

“For now.”

“Shit.”

Snafu adjusted the bag on his shoulder, not wanting to leave it behind in the rush of leaving. 

Soon a waiter came to them with menus, and Snafu almost asked her what she was handing him, forgetting where he was. He said thank you too late, the woman already gone to serve another couple. He looked at the page, laminated and streaky after a wipedown. 

The concept of food seemed almost bizarre, like some part of life he’d forgotten and moved on from. Snafu couldn’t even find it to be hungry in him, but he ordered a coffee anyway, and when he got it, he clutched his hands around the mug until he couldn’t bear the heat and took his hands away. Goosebumps broke up and down his arms.

“Those guys,” he said, after a long, tense while. “The same ones from yesterday.”

“Yes.”

His palms were still stinging, so he closed them, feeling them throb. 

Sledge started to say his name, before a plate was set down between them. Snafu bit his lip so he didn’t react, and Sledge must have suppressed a reaction, too, because he released a hard breath when the waiter left them.

The eggs and toast steamed on the plate, and the smell that rose from it would’ve been appealing if Snafu wasn’t so concerned about everything else. Sledge just stared at the meal as if he was confused, or he didn’t understand what the plate was doing there despite being the one who’d ordered it. Then he grabbed a fork and dragged it through the eggs, breaking the yolk. The contents spilled golden across the whites. Sledge couldn’t seem to bring any to his mouth though, and he set the fork down and shoved his hands through his hair instead. 

“We need to get extracted,” Snafu said, quietly.

His eyes roved around the immediate area as he spoke, taking in the busy register, and the line of people ordering coffees. It reminded Snafu of their first meeting, being tucked away in another small cafe. Snafu remembered the cakes in the display, the black forest cake dotted with berries and dusted with icing sugar. The carrot cake with a heavy layer of cream cheese frosting. He remembered almost getting up to buy a slice before Sledge appeared, his hair bright beneath the lights, his expression serious and controlled.

Snafu looked at Sledge, his hands still in his hair. He wondered what he was thinking, where his thoughts went, if they were going down all the possible routes and outcomes like he was. He had to be, there was no other option.

“We need to get extracted,” he said again. “It’s a fucking bust, Gene. They got us on our back foot. We can’t achieve anything if we’re always running from them.”

“We can,” Sledge said. “We can.”

For a long moment, Snafu just watched him. Then he reached across and took a slice of buttered toast from Sledge’s plate, and he ate it though nothing that he felt resembled hunger. After a moment, Sledge drew his hands from his hair, and found his burner. He typed out something and sent it off.

“Checking in,” he said before Snafu could ask.

“Thought they were looking for you.”

“With my contact,” Sledge said. “Just-- in case. Just in case,” he repeated, more firmly.

They waited a couple minutes more, and moved to leave. The food was mostly untouched. Snafu let Sledge out of the booth first, telling him he could pay and waiting until his back was turned to grab the butter knife on the table. Quickly, Snafu ducked to work it under the leg of his jeans, tucked into his sock. The metal was cool against his skin, and warmed up quickly, and everything was tight enough -- the jeans, his sock -- that it held the knife in place without jabbing him.

The shops were starting to open now, the lights turned on, and doors opened for customers. Lively chatter streamed out of various cafes and boutiques. Sometimes, too, came the sound of music, fast-paced with a heavy bass. Everything looked bright and alive, glowing under the mid-morning sun. 

The strap of Snafu’s bag dug into the junction of his neck and shoulder, and he adjusted it over and over without finding any comfort. Sledge led them into the crowd. Silence had fallen between them despite the clamour around them. Snafu looked at the face of everyone that passed. Sledge did the same thing, his chin angled as if trying to see from over the top. 

They needed to get out. It was all Snafu could think about. Every person that walked by was one person closer to being one of Ma’s men. 

The day wore on, pushing past the morning to breach the afternoon. The shoes he wore rubbed at the heel, and the jeans were too hot, and too tight. Snafu was aware of the need for a cigarette, and water, but the needs diminished as they walked deeper into Singapore, searching for something only Sledge seemed to know. 

Soon they reached one of the many parks of the city, full of playgrounds and families and trees. Everything was rich and green, and the sound of playful shrieking and laughter filled the air. It wasn’t so hot there, under the shade, and the grass was soft and plush underfoot. Every step brought up another waft of that fresh, green smell, which in turn brought back a feeble, unspecific memory of childhood. 

“We need to get to Japan,” Sledge was saying now, as if anticipating Snafu about to ask what the hell they were doing. “We need to get to Japan. Ma doesn’t leave Tokyo unless he has to.”

“All that was left in your bag,” Snafu said. “You think you can get another passport from your boy.”

“I don’t know.”

Distantly, idly, Snafu wondered what he would’ve thought of the park, if not for the mission. It was sprawling and endless around them. Further in the distance and above the thick canopy of leaves were the supertree observatories, like baobab trees constructed of filaments. A warm wind came over the bay, the briny smell enriched with flowers, and carrying birds and butterflies. Gulls cawed incessantly alongside the shrill ringing sound of cicadas.

It seemed unreal, all of it. The park, and the bright, clear day felt at odds with Ack Ack's death and potentially their own rearing up in front of them. It all seemed at odds in their scramble to find the man who killed him, here in this without resources and on the back foot. Any other time he would’ve said to Sledge, I’ve always wanted to come here. Any other time he would’ve said, I was saving this place. He would’ve said, It’s pretty, isn’t it, really meaning, Like you. It was an uneven, disorientating reality. 

Snafu reached out then, carefully wrapping his hand around Sledge’s wrist, and like that he pulled them to a stop. 

“We’re stuck.” Snafu said it as kind as he could manage, forcing all those other things he wanted to say into this specific shape. “It’s only going to be a matter of time until they close in on us again, and then what.”

Sledge took a breath. “I didn’t realise you were so quick to give up.”

“It’s done,” Snafu said. 

“It’s not done.”

The moment held, and then broke when one small child chasing another another barrelled into his legs. Snafu staggered, but caught himself, and the children darted away, laughing. 

A woman in a pair of grass stained jeans, and a shirt ran up to them. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

Snafu smiled, not really hearing himself when he said, “It’s fine. Kids are kids.”

He watched them go, the children too busy with their game to notice they were being chased by their mother, still calling for them. Their voices faded in the distance, leaving behind a taut silence.

“Where’s your safehouse,” Snafu asked.

He still had his hand around Sledge’s wrist so he let go, almost one finger at a time, and shoved both hands into the tight, shallow pockets of his stolen jeans.

Snafu continued, “I’ll contact Jay, and we’ll organise a passport and tickets from that end.”

He’d have to be careful not to let Burgie know, because then Burgie would come to Singapore and extract him himself, bare hands and everything.

“And then we’ll do it properly.”

Sledge wet his lips, gaze sweeping about the area as if trying to orientate himself before settling on him.

“It’s not far,” he said. “A couple of blocks from here.”

“Sure,” Snafu said. He could hear the relief in his voice. “Let’s go then.”

It took some time, but they made it to the edge of the park, all that green giving way to hot concrete and tall, glass buildings. The midday heat had driven people from the park in search of somewhere cool to eat, and the streets and sidewalk were relatively quiet and still. A white van sat parked on the curb, and Snafu noticed it the same instance the side door was hauled open and two men jumped out. Snafu threw a hand back, grasping for Sledge, and said his name just as one of the men swung.

Snafu dodged the first punch, but the second caught him in the stomach. He crumpled around it, gasping in air. Vaguely, he was aware of someone yanking his arms, and then after that, bite of a hard plastic cutting into his wrists. It was over in barely a minute, not enough time to comprehend what was happening, and it finished with both him and Sledge heaped in the back of a van, breathing roughly.

Snafu pressed his head to the wall, warmed from the outside by the sun. His knees were almost to his chest. He curled around the pain that still beat through him, making it difficult to gather his thoughts, to think, to put together _what the fuck was going on_. 

What happened? What had happened? How had they been so easily found? They’d shaken their tail, hadn’t they? They’d double backed enough. They’d gone down every alley they’d passed, looked over their shoulder the entire time. There was no way Ma or any of his men had the capabilities to pin them down so easily.

Bit by bit the pain eased, and Snafu was able to unravel.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. 

He said it louder, and then again. He slammed his feet against the floor, and the force of it vibrated through the metal.

Sledge was silent. He’d dragged himself seated upright, and slouched against the wall beside him. There was something resigned on his face, and in the way he sat, like after all that he’d given up. He’d given up. Snafu didn’t even know if he’d put up a fight.

“Jesus Christ, Sledge,” Snafu said. “Jesus fucking Christ, what did I tell you. I told you that they were too close. I told you we needed to bail. I told you this the second they got to us in the hotel, why didn’t you listen. Jesus Christ, you asshole, say something.”

The van pulled to a rough stop, and Snafu had to brace not to fall. He glanced to the wall that separated them from the drivers. The small window at the top was pulled shut, but he still yelled out, “Fuck you, too. You drive like shit.”

Sledge set his head back, and the small thud drew Snafu’s attention, and he watched as Sledge stared up at the dark ceiling. His Adam’s apple jumped as he swallowed, and the skin there glowed in the dim light with sweat. There was a small mark barely visible at the jut of his collarbone, and Snafu’s chest constricted a little at the sudden, almost physical memory of putting that mark there himself. His teeth closing carefully over bone, and the salty taste of Sledge’s skin, the sound he’d made as he’d arched into the bite.

Snafu ground his teeth together and looked away. His skin was hot. He should’ve stuck with Jay. If he had wanted something so badly, he should have stuck with Jay. Jay wasn’t terrible, and he knew how to put up with him. They could’ve figured something out. But Snafu thought this knowing that it never would’ve worked out, not in the long run anyway, not while he was preoccupied with Sledge.

“Are you always this easily found,” Snafu demanded, turning back. “I know you ain’t, Sledge, I know you’re better than this. I’ve seen your work. I know what you can do. I know how good you are. Except every time we turn around there’s one of them. Every time we drag ourselves ahead, we turn around and there’s another one there. They’ve been on our goddamn heels this entire fucking time. You’re not this shit. You’re not allowed to be this shit. You--“

Snafu stopped, and stared hard at Sledge.

“You’re letting them,” he said, after a moment. 

Sledge said nothing. It was so unexpected that it was funny, except Snafu couldn’t choke up a laugh.

“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking letting them find us.”

“Merriell--”

“You’re letting them fucking find us, Sledge.”

The silence rang in the van. Snafu’s chest heaved, and his throat ached from yelling. He was sweating freely now. Inside the van the air was thick and humid, almost suffocating, and beads of sweat ran down his back, and at his jaw. Snafu thudded his head back against the wall. The pain was dull, and it did nothing to dislodge whatever he felt. Frustration, resentment, anger. Humiliation, the heat of it crawling up his throat, bleeding across his skin. He closed his eyes, hot and stinging with tears. He bit his lip, and welcomed the sharp sting. Shit.

“Merriell,” Sledge said again. 

Snafu was aware of him crowding up close, his knee pressing against his leg. He wanted to recoil, but couldn’t find it in him. It was as if he’d exhausted his capacity to react. 

“Merriell.”

Sledge’s voice was low and urgent, and despite himself, Snafu listened. He listened wishing he could turn that part of himself off, the part who had always tried to find where Sledge was, the part of him that recognised the hallmarks of his work; who noticed whenever their paths crossed, their proximity, however tenuous it was. The part that wanted Sledge to look at him, too.

I thought you were good, Snafu wanted to tell him. I thought we were the same. His throat constricted as if the words were about to come. They didn’t. 

Sledge’s breathing was light and fast, audible over the sound of the engine. It skimmed across Snufu’s skin. 

“Ma has been pulling together his resources and contacts.” He spoke fast, quiet. “You noticed that, haven’t you. Even if you don’t work the same jobs, you would’ve seen it happen. Some of your assignments have started to work with them, too, haven’t they. The Mac case. The Signal case. Both of them have ties to Ma. He’s got too much pull, now, too much power. He wants everything, and give it enough time and he’s going to get it, Shelton.” 

He said, “Ack Ack infiltrated their network. It took him almost a year, year and a half, but he got it. He was in. He was feeding us information. We’ve been closing in on his network, chipping away at it, but we needed to get to Ma. Cut off one head, right? You know how this works. Doesn’t matter who we arrested, another operative sprang up in place. How long do you think Ack Ack could do this without anyone noticing? How long? Ack Ack somehow the only man standing after everyone else is wiped out?”

Sledge stopped there, as if letting it sink in. 

Then he said, voice quiet to the point of gentleness, “He’s not dead.”

Snafu had anticipated this the moment Sledge had started speaking. He’d anticipated those exact words. Relief heaved up in him. He’s not dead. Except the words did nothing for the miserable sense of betrayal hot in him.

“Fuck you, Sledge,” he said, eyes still closed, still burning. “What did you need me for anyway.”

The van pulled to a short stop then, sending scraps of deterius skittering to the front along with Snafu’s bag, his laptop sliding free and slamming against the wall. Snafu wasn’t prepared to react this time, and toppled over into Sledge. He was scrambling for balance the second they hit the van floor, and he snapped at Sledge to stop moving to listening. Sledge’s zip-tied hands stilled at his shoulder, but he didn’t withdraw them. There was a lack of sound outside, and Snafu guessed they had moved away from traffic. He glanced about, searching the corners though he knew nothing was there. A door slammed then, and the van rocked on its wheels. Sledge’s grip tightened.

“Shit,” Snafu said. “We need to get out. We need to make a break for it if we can. You--”

“Not yet.” There was something desperate and sorry in Sledge’s voice. “This could be one of their primary bases.”

Snafu turned his face, and pressed his forehead to Sledge’s shoulder, the closest part of him. His shirt was damp with sweat, and Snafu breathed in the tang of salt-and-metal that clung to him.

“Asshole,” Snafu said. “I trusted you. I fucking--... How much time did we have until backup arrives.”

“We were meant to be in Japan--”

“How much _time_ , Sledge.”

“Tonight. Six thirty-five.”

The van door was wrenched open then. Sunlight poured in, hot and insistent, and so bright that Snafu flinched even though his eyes were shielded. The men at the door laughed at the sight of them, and said something in Mandarin to each other. Sledge tensed briefly, then relaxed. One by one they were hauled out. 

Snafu refused to go as easily as Sledge. He fought against their grip, cursed at them, and kicked out. They silenced him with another blow to his gut, sending Snafu to the hard ground. Gravel bit into his knees through the denim, and over his head, both men laughed. One of them grabbed the back of his shirt, and dragged him into the warehouse. Concrete and gravel raked against his bare skin. 

Inside, away from the sun, they dumped him and Sledge into a corner. His head thumped the ground as he dropped, and Snafu sprawled on his back, still trying to breathe through the agony, still trying to claw in lungfuls of air. Everything throbbed and ached, and a sharp whine rang through his head. Sledge scrambled to him. 

“What are you doing,” he said. “Why did you-- Jesus, Merriell.”

“Am I good,” Snafu ground out.

Sledge hesitated.

“Am I fucking good?”

A pause, then, “You’re okay.”

The concrete floor was cool against his back, making him shiver through the lingering pain. Nausea roiled through him, though if it was from the jolting ride, or the blows to his gut, his head, or because of the entire goddamn situation, Snafu didn’t know. Probably all of it. 

Something touched his cheek then, and Snafu drew in a breath. He opened his eyes, blinking past the black and the blur of shadows. Sledge was looking down at him, pale faced and shaken, and his fingers, awkward as the zip-tie made it, were warm and sweat-damp, and stroking over Snafu’s skin before resting at his jaw.

“Six thirty-five,” Snafu said, voice rough, and a little unsteady. “All we have to do is stay alive until then, that right?”

Sledge’s lips tightened like he was going to say something, but in the end he must have decided against it. It was the truth anyway, and Snafu sneered at him, letting the expression speak for itself. All they had to do was stay alive.

+

Time passed, and the warehouse only grew hotter. Sweat soaked his shirt. It slicked his skin, beaded at his temples and ran down his back. Every time Snafu licked his lips, he tasted salt, and it aggravated how dry his mouth was.

“Hey,” he called out. 

His voice echoed in the open space, and the men guarding them glanced their way. Beside them and the guards, the only other thing in the warehouse was a shadowy bank of computers up against the back wall.

“Hey,” Snafu said, raising his voice enough to echo. “We need water, assholes.”

The guards stared at them a second longer, and then looked away, resuming whatever quiet conversation they’d been in the middle of. Snafu swore under his breath. 

“The hell are they waiting for,” he said, not looking away from them. “The hell are they standing around for.”

“Ma.”

Snafu looked at Sledge, and found him focused on the guards, too. His face was still pale, and there was dirt streaked on his cheek, commingled with sweat. The scratch on his face had healed overnight, and had scabbed lightly. 

“They’re waiting for Ma,” he said. “They’d kill us otherwise.”

So this is where it was all headed.

Snafu wasn’t entirely certain what his mental image of Ma was. He’d seen photos, pinned inside the Mac and Signal files, and it showed a man of Japanese descent. Young looking, handsome. He’d come from a relatively well known family. Research showed no links to the yakuza, or anything like that. No history of crime. Nothing. On the surface, Ma was just an employee in some middle tier accounting firm. Except while he was balancing the books, he was organising his crime network, taking over small businesses, peddling drugs, hacking into the banking system, creating links with like minded others.

The hours pressed on. A vague sense of hunger grew into the already pressing thirst. Snafu couldn’t even keep his lips wet, his mouth was too dry. 

“Hey,” he called, every so often. “I need some fucking water.”

But the guards didn’t bother looking anymore, too busy on their phones, or talking, or standing there in the hot semi-dark. They snapped to attention at Ma’s arrival. A literal snap that jolted Snafu from the half doze he’d fallen into. Beside him, Sledge had stiffened, too, sitting up. The silence in the warehouse rang. Everyone waited. 

Ma was both nothing like and exactly like the photos, dressed neatly in work clothes. He even had a satchel. It looked like he’d just left work for the day, and was ready to go home, get out of his clothes and drink beer in front of the tv. He was no taller than Snafu, and no broader. He was remarkably normal, save for the fact he was there. Save for the fact that when he snapped his fingers, his two men dragged him and Sledge to the middle of the room, and dumped them at his feet. 

Snafu immediately pushed to his knees, trying to stand when one of Ma’s men stamped a boot against his spine, sending him sprawling onto the floor again.

He wrenched around. “Fuck you,” he said.

“Merrie--”

“You too, Sledge, shut up.”

Sledge quieted, but his eyes were hard and flinty, trying to convey something that Snafu wasn’t interested in understanding.

“And fuck you while I’m at it. Fuck you, too.”

“Where’s Haldane.” Ma said it quietly, almost politely.

Snafu swung his attention to him, not bothering to give Sledge the chance to speak. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit,” Ma said. “He’s one of yours. I know that. You think I didn’t notice? And now he’s disappeared, and while I would’ve gladly done the honour of killing him myself, I haven’t. But you,” he said, shifting to Sledge. “There’s talk that you did.”

Sledge said nothing, just stared up at Ma with something like stubbornness on his face. Snafu recognised the brand of it, the way Sledge braced himself, prepared to weather whatever Ma wanted to do just to buy enough time for back up to arrive. The henchmen had stripped them earlier of their watches, phones, and destroyed them along with Snafu’s laptop. Whatever eyes Sledge’s team had on them were gone, he just hoped that the information of their whereabouts had been pinned before that point. Snafu bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from speaking. He tasted blood.

“Where’s Haldane,” Ma said again.

“No fucking clue,” Snafu said, cutting across whatever Sledge was about to say.

Ma struck him across the jaw, almost sending him back to the ground. It happened so fast that Snafu wasn’t able to brace himself. His ears rang, and his jaw ached and throbbed. Snafu screwed his eyes shut, the sway of the room around him making him sick. He heard Sledge say his name, his voice sounding like it came from far away.

“Keep the other one down.” Ma’s voice rang through the warehouse. “Keep him _down_.”

Snafu spat on the floor.

“Where’s Haldane,” Ma said again. “You have him hidden away somewhere. You don’t have to be like this. You know what’s at stake, I don’t have to make some speech about taking your teeth, and removing your fingernails. You know how this works.”

Snafu spat again. Blood trailed from his mouth, and he lifted his arms to swipe the mess away.

“I keep telling you,” he said, voice glutted with blood. “I have no fucking idea where he is. Last I heard anything was that you killed him. There’s pictures to prove it. They’re all over the fucking place. Shit, you didn’t know that? I would’ve shown them to you myself, but your boys broke my laptop. You got him right in the head. Real neat job.”

Ma was smiling at him. There was nothing warm about the smile, nothing pleasant. His teeth were very white, very even.

“Bullshit.”

“He’s dead.” Snafu said, raising his voice. “He’s fucking dead. You fucking killed him.”

“He’s not dead.”

Snafu drew in a breath. “What the _fuck_ are they talking about, Sledge,” he yelled. “He’s dead. Tell them, Sledge. Haldane’s dead because they killed him.”

“He’s dead.” Sledge’s words were a quiet counterpoint to his, barely audible. 

He was looking at him while he said it, but then he realised himself and moved his focus to Ma standing over them. Sledge’s hair was damp with sweat, and there was a sickly sheen to his face. His eyes were large, and dark. They looked haunted, and for a moment Snafu thought he was being honest, telling the truth that Haldane was dead. The loss welled up in him, chased by frustrated rage. And not only that, but something quiet and almost like awe, seeing how easily Sledge wore the con.

“He’s dead,” Sledge said again. “I saw it myself. One of yours killed him.”

Ma snapped something in Japanese to the men behind him. One of them shook their heads, and said something back. 

He returned to them. 

“There’s no body,” Ma said. “Strange how no one kept it. No one has found it lying around. Stop talking.”

Sledge shut his mouth.

Ma continued, “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead. I keep hearing it, and yet nothing has turned up to prove it. Nothing but some unverified pictures on the internet.”

He drew out a gun. It glinted dully in the dim light. A Beretta Nano, easily hidden. Powerful. Accurate. Snafu stared at it, nestled comfortably in Ma’s hand. 

“I would’ve used this,” he said. “Nine mil, six rounds. I’d planned to set it here,” Ma took the gun to his temple. “And pull the trigger. Haldane would’ve even heard the bang.”

He smiled, and after a moment, he pulled the gun away from his head and turned it to Sledge. 

“You might, though,” he said. “You might hear it.”

Snafu’s chest went tight, and what little colour Sledge had on his face drained away completely. 

The bang rang through the warehouse, and the bullet drove through the concrete floor. Someone was yelling, and Snafu couldn’t tell if it was him, or Sledge, or Ma. Maybe it was his two henchmen. Maybe back-up had arrived, and all that yelling was back-up telling them to stay down, just stay down.

Sledge shoved at his shoulders, and Snafu scrambled to his knees. The pain hit him later, the savage throbbing of his knees and elbows, and the awkward ache of his wrists, still tied together. 

He’d thrown himself across Sledge at the last second, Snafu realised belatedly, a heartbeat before Ma had pulled the trigger.

“Move,” Sledge was saying, breathless and desperate. “Now. Run.”

There was nowhere to run. 

Ma fired another shot as Sledge rolled them away. Snafu’s back hit the ground hard, winding him. Ma was yelling. Sledge was yanking his shirt, pulling him up, telling him over and over, “You’re good, you’re fine, you’re good.”

Snafu shouldered him aside. He brought up his wrists, and yanked the cord of the zip-tie with his teeth. The plastic bit into his skin, cut off circulation. Then he raised his arms over his head, and slammed his elbows down. The plastic snapped, the lock skittered away. Ma was still yelling. 

A henchman grabbed his shoulder, and Snafu whipped around and punched. Pain burst across his knuckles, and the man staggered away. Something slammed against his back then, throwing him back to the ground. Agony burst through him, and sound faded out. It took several moments to swim above all, to return, gasping, to the warehouse. 

Snafu reached and fumbled at his leg, finding the knife. The metal was skin warm, and comfortable in his grasp. Shaking, he pushed himself up, shoved his unsteadiness aside, and took stock. One of Ma’s men was on the ground in a puddle of blood. The other one had Sledge on his back foot, forcing him to weather blows while Ma watched in fascination. 

The warehouse was mostly shadows, lit up here and there with strip lights. Knife in hand, Snafu came in close, keeping to the shadows as he followed the trajectory of the fight. Sledge was breathing hard. His face was red, and he was sweating. His lip was bleeding. The henchman swung, fist glancing across Sledge’s forearms. Ma stood off to the side of him, unknowingly taking the same path Snafu staked on the other side. Here and there Ma broke into laughter, and goaded his man on.

For all the drama he caused, Ma was no different to another other criminal. It was the same old, tired shit. The henchman must have had enough of it. He grabbed Sledge, and locked him in a hold. Opportunity presented itself in that same moment. Snafu ducked in, rose up, and slammed the knife into the junction of the henchman’s neck and shoulder. The blade stopped when it hit bone, but the damage had been done. Blood spilled everywhere, red and metallic, soaking Snafu’s hands as he ripped the knife back out. 

Sledge wrenched himself from the hold, driving forward as the man holding him staggered back. He took Ma by the knees, and they both hit the ground hard. The gun dropped from Ma’s hand, and skittered away. Snafu scrambled for it. It was over.

+

Back-up didn’t burst through the door in the same instance they had Ma on the ground with Snafu’s knee shoved against his spine. Back-up didn’t arrive for another hour, led by Ack Ack.

Snafu supposed he should’ve been surprised when he saw him, and more so when he saw Burgie step in a moment later, grim-faced. But he knew better than to be surprised. Burgie went straight for him, hand extended to haul him up. Snafu went, wincing, his ass numb from sitting on the hard ground, and everything else still aching.

“Are you alright?”

“It’s not mine,” Snafu said, meaning the blood. His hands were tacky with it.

Burgie didn’t fuss as he extracted the story from him, but he didn’t tear him a new one either. Snafu knew he wanted to, and it was funny to see how tightly he was keeping it in check, saving it up for later. Hard to argue with results, he supposed. 

The sound of people walking in and out filled up the space. Sharp heels clattered against the polished concrete floor. Someone had hauled in a compact light tower, and the beam shone hard against the blank slate of the warehouse. The brightness hurt Snafu’s eyes, and settled as a headache.

“I’m going to speak to Haldane,” Burgie said, finally.

“Sure,” Snafu said.

He didn’t leave straight away, and Snafu was about to comment when he saw the expression on Burgie’s face. It was strange to see concern there, and not because Burgie didn’t regularly demonstrate it, but because it was so visibly in place It had the effect of making him look younger, and more inexperienced than he was. It made it look as if this was the first time he’d walked into a warehouse full of officers, and government agents, and talked to one of his operatives while his hands were still bloody. 

“Hey,” Snafu said. “I’m fine. You go talk to Ack Ack. I think he’s looking for you anyway.”

Snafu didn’t know if he was or he wasn’t, but it did the job, and Burgie left.

Sledge approached him in the next moment, as if he’d been waiting the entire time for Snafu to be alone. He started to say something, but stopped. In their corner of the warehouse, the silence grew in spite of the discussion around them. Snafu didn’t know what sort of silence it was. Every so often the sharp click of a camera cut through the voices, breaking the tumult apart for a second before it all resumed. The smell of blood was strong in the enclosed space. More than anything Snafu wanted to go find a tap somewhere, and wash it off. If he was lucky, then maybe he’d get the blood off the shirt, too.

“Why did you need me,” Snafu asked, after a long while.

“He wouldn’t have come out of hiding if it was only me,” Sledge said. “Not Ma. They would’ve sent anyone to do the job. But if you were with me, then that meant your agency was involved, too. They already knew you were investigating the Signal case.”

Snafu smiled flatly at him. “We would’ve agreed if you asked. It’s Haldane, Sledge. It’s fucking Haldane.”

“There wasn’t any time to convince your agency,” Sledge said. “Ack Ack took out his right hand, and so we only had one shot with Ma. We couldn’t afford you saying no.”

Snafu scoffed, glancing away. His gaze landed on Ma, braced on his knees, hands to the back of his head. The zip-tie had been cut off, replaced by cuffs, and the steel glinted. Blood streaked Ma’s face, and every line of his body was tight in obvious fury. 

Snafu saw Burgie next, neat in his suit, face serious as he conversed with Haldane. Even this far away, Snafu could see the awe in Burgie’s body language, the way his attention was fixed on the man in front of him. But there was frustration, too, still there, hemmed back as it was. 

It was sloppy, Burgie would probably say later. There’d be regret all over his face for saying it, hating to criticise Haldane, and Snafu would tell him the circumstances were sloppy, with the Ma pinning them down sooner than they’d expected. But it had worked either way, and the set-up was flawless. Caught him hook and line, and all of that. Haldane would’ve known exactly how his target worked, what would’ve drawn him out. Some warning would’ve been nice, but like Sledge said, chances were the higher ups would have never let it happen. Not without weeks of paperwork and red tape, more than enough time for Ma to slip from the crosshairs.

“Sir.”

Snafu stirred, blinking as he returned to himself. An EMT stood beside Sledge, concern on his face as he gestured. 

“Sir, you’re bleeding.”

After a moment, he said, “I’ll deal with it.”

Sledge took a step forward. “Merriell--”

“No,” Snafu said, taking an equal step back. All of him heaved at the idea of Sledge getting that close to him again. “I’m done here. You got your man. Now I’ve gotta go and get benched for blowing protocol outta the water. You did a good job, Sledge. I’ll see you ‘round.”

He moved off to join Burgie. Sledge watched him leave. Snafu felt the weight of his gaze at his back. He was probably looking at him with pity, or annoyance, or something like that, resignation maybe. Whatever it was, Snafu didn’t bother looking back to find out. Burgie glanced at him as he approached, and he thanked Ack Ack, and shook his hand.

“Shelton, wasn’t it,” Ack Ack said, just as they were about to leave.

Snafu had seen him in pictures, mostly as a young man just starting out. He’d never seen him up close, and in detail like this. More handsome than those old photos, with a square jaw, broad features, and something friendly on his face. He was dressed in a suit, sans jacket, no tie, the button undone at the very top. He didn’t even look like he was sweating in the damp heat of the warehouse. Despite himself, Snafu felt some of his anger become undone.

“We were hoping to meet you under better circumstances one day,” he said. 

Snafu didn’t really hear himself say anything, but he must have said something, because Burgie cleared his throat at his elbow, and shifted. 

“It’s fine,” Ack Ack was saying, maybe to Burgie. “Circumstances weren’t ideal. The operation was kind of rough. But you and Sledge pulled it off. Ma’s been caught, and we’re working on disassembling the rest of his network. You did good. We’ll be in contact to deal with the fallout.”

This time Snafu heard his own rough, “Sure.” 

It sounded like disbelief floated on the surface of the word, but maybe he was just worn out. He didn’t know. He needed a drink. He needed a cigarette. And that EMT was watching him from across the warehouse like he was pleading, clearly wanting to look him over and dress his wounds. Snafu supposed he looked sorrier than he was, wearing a t-shirt crusted with drying blood.

Burgie hovered as he was patched up, a constant presence, and one that was more quiet support than disapproval. They took him to the local hospital, and from the hospital the next morning, they attended a debrief conducted in the interview rooms of the local government office. From there it was all routine, and out of his hands.

It took two days in all, and he only saw Sledge once, briefly.

At the end of everything, the hospital, the briefings, he and Burgie stood on the sidewalk for a cab to the airport. It was late, and it was cooler, not so hot as it had been during the day. Overhead, the night sky was black, and there was too much light pollution to see any stars. 

“Back when I was growing up,” Snafu said, finally breaking the silence between them. “We lived on the bayou. Nothing big, just a small house at the very back of the street. It was real nice there, Burgie, you could really see the stars.”

Burgie didn’t say anything, waiting for Snafu to finish what he was saying. The street lamp nearby caught the bright blue of his eyes, and the crease at the corner of his mouth. But Snafu didn’t offer anything more, just ran a hand down his face and said, “Let’s get outta here.”

They didn’t speak about it again until they were on route back to the States. Burgie got them business class, and Snafu said he must’ve been feeling either generous, or sorry for his ass. 

“Neither,” Burgie said. 

He looked really put together, his hair neatly combed, and his collar pressed. 

Snafu sat back in the plush seat, and hummed.

“You know that was all Sledge’s plan there,” Burgie said, after a minute.

It was funny, and kind of strange, how he said it so easily. He was even holding a book in his hand, fingers tucked between the pages, ready to get back into it; one of those novels they sold in the airport shops, written to pass the time, fast paced plots that centred around solving some crime before the bomb blew, or something like that. Burgie really had appalling taste. 

“It was rough,” Burgie continued, “like Haldane said. Really messy. I’m still not impressed, and there’s still some things I need to sort out once we get back. But apprehending Ma-- That felt real good.”

Snafu glanced down the aisle. The plane was full. Dinner had only been cleared away, but the smell of it still hung in the air. Thin airplane gravy, and steamed broccoli. He didn’t know what he felt, what it was beyond the roiling motion sickness, if it was resignation or something else. Maybe he should’ve felt good like Burgie was saying, with Ma in cuffs, and a whole raft of issues stopped before they had really started. Or maybe he should’ve felt hurt, or a more directed anger in being dragged along on a mission while aware of only half the plan. But anger was so far out of his reach he couldn’t even sense the heat of it. His head ached. Nausea threatened. 

Snafu shut his eyes, and swallowed hard. He thought of the cafe, the one with the cakes behind the glass, and the pleasant, familiar scent of coffee in the air.

I would’ve said yes if you’d asked me the second we sat down at that cafe. 

It was an echo of what he’d said in the warehouse, and Snafu still remembered Sledge’s face when he said it again in the interview room. He remembered his bafflement, the flash of shame, the helpless shrug of his shoulders. Sledge’s hands, palms up, had been rested on the table. They’d been inching towards him, those hands, like they wanted to touch.

I would’ve said yes, Snafu had said. He’s Andrew Haldane, but you’re Eugene fucking Sledge.

+

The morning that day was fine. Clouds streaked the sky in a thin layer. It was the kind of day that started warm, and that only grew hotter as it wore on. Snafu had no plans, nothing other than to climb into his clothes and pick up where he left off the day before.

Dressed, he went to find breakfast. The kitchen of his house was smaller than he remembered growing up, but the smaller space was comforting in its own way. Familiar, despite all the replacements. The appliances, the benchtops, the cupboards. All of it had been worn down over time, chipped, scratched, and barely functioning. He hadn’t found a table set small enough to fit into the room yet, and so he ate a square of toast while leaning against the benchtop, the lip digging into his hip through his jeans.

He had to work on the roof that day. It had rained for the first time a couple days ago, and he’d woken the next morning to puddles here and there on the floors. Most of the house had wooden flooring, and none of the water had seeped into the wood itself. But the bedrooms were all carpet. So was the bathroom, but Snafu had sorted that out the second he’d settled. So the roof. Snafu finished off his breakfast, and headed out.

The roof was made of tin, and time and rust had worn holes through the material. Snafu decided that he’d board the holes up first, and figure out what to do after. If he was going to fix it, or strip the tin altogether and replace it. The thrum of a car engine caught his attention then, and Snafu looked up. The house was situated at the end of a long, ambling drive, fringed by old twisted trees wrapped up in vines. Up this high, he could see the edge of the bayou, filmed with green plants and dotted here and there with water birds. Up this high, whoever was driving up would be able to see him staring down.

Soon the car parked up beside Snafu’s pick-up, the tray filled with construction material. Slabs of bricks, tubes of caulking, tools, tiles. It was a funny juxtaposition with the sleek, modern Audi nestled up close to his old truck. 

The car door didn’t pop open immediately, and Snafu got the sense they were both waiting for some signal. He shrugged, knowing whoever was in the car was watching him, and returned to his task. The door opened then. Snafu didn’t bother looking.

Whoever it was stepped out, and slammed the door shut. Then there was silence. Snafu took his hammer again, and grabbed another nail.

“I still owe you,” Sledge finally called up to him.

“Sure,” Snafu said. “Quid pro quo. I’ll give you Burgie’s details in a second. You wait there.”

“No,” Sledge said. “Haldane’s squared it with Burgin. He’s got all he needs on the Signal case. But I still owe you.”

The heat rose from the surface of the roof, somehow hotter than the sun that beat against his back and shoulders. Snafu hefted up his hammer, the handle sweaty in his hand, and stared at the head of the nail, glinting where it was positioned on the plank of wood. His plan from the second he saw the car was to ignore Sledge when he stepped out of it. But he found himself hesitating, and cursed. 

Snafu set the hammer down, and moved to the ladder. He was aware of Sledge waiting, watching him as he worked his way down, and so Snafu didn’t rush. It still felt too soon when he reached solid ground though. Snafu took a breath, set his shoulders and turned. 

“Well,” he said, “what is it.”

Sledge had the decency not to look put out, or disappointed about the rough treatment. If he did, then Snafu would’ve told him to get the hell out, and that would’ve been it. The lack of anything made him stay. Sledge took a breath, glancing up at the roof. It was coming together slowly, but progress was progress.

“It looks good,” Sledge said.

“Uh huh,” Snafu said, still looking at Sledge. “Sure does.”

“You do this all yourself?”

Snafu leaned up against the ladder, and folded his arms, an elbow and his hip set against the rungs. “Sure.”

Sledge looked at him, and Snafu raised a brow in response.

“C’mon,” he said. “You telling me that you came all this way to pat me on the back over the house? Or would that be bullshit, too.”

This time Sledge winced.

Snafu smiled. “I’m being mean. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Sledge said. “Don’t apologise.”

Silence settled between them, the shape of it awkward. Snafu let it happen, not bothering to offer anything that would alleviate it.

“I heard you retired,” Sledge said, finally.

“Uh huh,” Snafu said.

He moved to pack up, collecting extra tools from the ground, scraps of wood, a box of nails. It was coming on into lunch, too hot in the day now to work. His skin was smarting. He’d have to start again later in the afternoon, when the sun had lost some of its intensity.

“Been thinking about it for a while,” he continued. “Now’s a good a time as any.”

“Oh,” Sledge said.

“What’re you here for, Sledge,” Snafu said, tired of whatever this was. “You got your man, you squared it all up. Ack Ack’s fine, and working with our Hillbilly, so I heard. They’re pretty good together, got a few cases under their belt already. Now you’ve come here, and it’s not to tell me I’ve done a good job fixing this old place up. So what is it.”

Sweat filmed Sledge’s brow. He looked hot and uncomfortable. His dark eyes were soft, and his mouth was set in a miserable line. He was back in a suit, too, or at least the slacks and a shirt, the jacket maybe left behind in the car he’d parked up beside Snafu’s truck. The heat had made him fold up the long sleeves of his shirt, exposing the pale white of his arms, just starting to pink up from the hard sunlight. He looked good.

“I came to see you,” Sledge said. 

It was strange to see him like this. Not this: framed by the bayou, standing in among the tall grasses, bright beneath the sunlight. But this: fumbling for what to say, his gaze skittish, landing on Snafu before casting away. Something about it made Snafu patient where he should’ve been walking away, made him wait for an answer instead of having to push for one.

Insects hummed around them, and a slight breeze stirred through the branches of the surrounding trees, the long strands of catkin swaying as if moved by some invisible hand. It was almost like being in Singapore again in a small way, with the pressing heat, and unrelenting humidity; the air rich with the smell of growing things. Snafu recalled the park, his hand around Sledge’s wrist.

“I missed you,” Sledge said then, glancing up. “I thought about you everything. I was thinking that maybe we could work together again somehow, and maybe if I worked with you, we could sort it all out. I could say sorry to you proper. I could make it up to you. But when I got in contact with Burgin he told me you left. He told me you had retired.”

“He tell you I was here?” Snafu said.

A small smile passed across Sledge’s face, and his chin dipped like he was shy. “No.”

There was a moment of silence again before he continued, voice soft. “But I really did, you know.”

“Did what,” Snafu said.

“Think about you. Miss you.”

The tools were growing heavy in Snafu’s grasp. The box of nails was cumbersome, the broken bits of wood jabbing against the tender skin of his forearms. The entire lot of it threatened to slip from his sweaty hold. He set it all back down, and rubbed his semi-numb hands together. 

“What about you,” Sledge said. “You ever think about me, too.”

“The guy who set me up as bait without me knowing,” he said. “Sure.”

Snafu was meant to walk away then, for real this time, and leave Sledge on the driveway to watch as the door closed behind him. He knew by the sight of him Sledge would’ve left it at that. He would’ve walked away, and that would be the last of him. And he’d find gratification in the fact Sledge would never get whatever he was looking for from him. Forgiveness or whatever it was. Understanding. He wouldn’t have to know Snafu thought about him all the goddamn time. Every single day. 

“Why me,” he said instead, repeating the same question from all those months ago.

“Why you,” Sledge said, brow creasing. “You… you’re Merriell Shelton. Leyden doesn’t shut up about your work. He learned the word renegade to describe you, you know that? And Oswalt, he asks me every single day what it was like to work with you.”

“Easier than it would be to work with you,” Snafu said.

Sledge relented. He sighed. “I should’ve said it from the beginning.”

“Yeah.”

“If I could do it again, I would’ve done it that way. And then maybe,” Sledge glanced up again to the roof. “I could be helping you out with this. It’s a really nice house, Merriell. I like it a lot. It suits you.”

Sledge stopped shortly. His eyes had gone pink, like he was trying not to cry. 

“I grew up here,” Snafu said. “It’s my parent’s house, but they lost it when I was ten, moved me and my little sister to live with our grandparents.”

“It’s a nice house,” Sledge said again.

“And it’s mine now.”

“It’s yours.”

“I thought about what it would’ve been like if you lived here, too,” Snafu said. “Once or twice. I thought about you arguing with me over the wallpaper and junk like that. I don’t think you’d really care at the end of the day, though. You would’ve gone along with anything so long as it made me happy.”

“What wallpaper did you pick in the end?”

Snafu thought about the bare walls. “Red.”

Sledge gave a short laugh. “Red?”

“Yeah,” Snafu said. “You wanna have a look.”

Sledge scrubbed a heel against his eyes. “Yes.” There was a shudder in his voice. “Please. I’d love to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to turings for every time I cried at you about this fic, and to Shannon for the amazing beta job (and all my last minute questions) Special thanks to Q for all the writing sprints ♥♥♥. 
> 
> Mistakes remain my own, and, as always, HBO representation only. Title from "Deep Pond at Dusk in Heavy Rain against Pines" by J. Allyn Rosser. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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